


so it's gonna be forever (or it's gonna go down in flames)

by safeandsound13



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AH - Freeform, AU, All Human, Alternate Universe, Angst, Detective!Stiles, F/M, Humor, Pack Feels, Romance, also ALL HUMAN, but also heavy mentions of scallison, cop!everyone, crack fic ish, fbi agent!lydia, humour/angst/romance, its just a weird combination of a lot, mainly stydia, more like guarded!lydia, not really - Freeform, stiles pretends he hates isaac, this includes mean!lydia, you name it is there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-01 15:26:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2778179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles thinks him and the new FBI agent in town make the best team in the world, no, the universe. Lydia would rather burn all of her copies of the Notebook than ever use the term team. But, there's a serial killer in town, because it's Beacon Hills, and solving cases is her specialty, and the faster she does it, the faster she can leave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. we're the ones they've always left behind

**Author's Note:**

> so i literally started this fic in july so you now understand that when i say this took me five years to finish, i mean it. i kept getting distracted and i rewrote everything like five times and i'm still a little unsure. doubted very long about uploading it and then decided a multi-chapter would do it more good. i'm not good at mixing humor and angst so i'll see what you guys think i guess.
> 
> this an AU in which they're cops and most importantly, allison lives. also i'm an eighteen year old dutch white girl, i do not know how the law enforcement system in america works. i did however abuse google's search bar, in hope of creating something that's at least a little believable.
> 
> i tried keeping them in character as possible, but you know me!1! i love crack goodbye
> 
> i own absolutely nothing, title song is by taylor swift because i would leave heterosexuality for her and the song in this chapter is from sheppard.

_._

_chapter one: we're the ones they've always left behind_

 

So here's how the story goes, right?

The incredibly lame, screwed up, awkward, frustrating story of his life that is. It's like a mix of Kickass and the Notebook. Things that you think aren't supposed to go together, that you never expect to ever,  _ever_  go well together and honestly they shouldn't. Believe him.

It's just that—well, it's his life.

He's at a bar, for the first time in years (beside their local bar Finstock's across from the sheriff's station where they work but that one doesn't really count since it's basically their batcave), and he's dressed up in something other than his regular jeans with t-shirt, this time spotting jeans and a buttoned shirt. Progress.

Suggesting change was good, his BFF (and ever) Scott urged him to come here, along with their other colleague and friend, Allison. Who, by the way, dressed up particularly well,  _baring_ today in a pink skintight dress which is definitely a huge contrast to the police uniform she sports everyday. (In her defense, a burqa would practically look more revealing than the navy blue uniform she has to wear daily).

Picture that, right?

His best friend begs him to come along to some stupid bar club thing and he dresses up, like actually irons his button down and everything, and Allison comes along because he can't remember a time she didn't. Then first thing those two are just off in their little world talking about exciting cases like helping grandmas cross the street and giving out speeding tickets (cause this is Beacon Hills and nothing exciting ever happens here) and they're partners so they have 'special' stories, whatever, and then Scott just gets wasted.

Like so incredibly wasted he's seconds away from vomiting or dancing naked or other drunk people stuff and Allison has to support him and take him home, muttering something about all of her efforts going to waste again and about not believing she wore high heels for this. Well, Allison, he can't believe it either. Not that he wore high heels, but he made a serious effort to tear himself away from the South Park marathon that was on TV earlier.

So then he's at this tasteless bar, by himself, ready to pay their tab and leave, when a strawberry blonde with a really cute round button nose sits down next to him.

He's not going to lie, he's a  _little_  drunk himself when he says the words, "Apart from being adorable, what do you do for a living?" but she seems amused enough (or just has incredibly low standards) and soon enough they're making out in his jeep (that, FYI he does not drive back to his apartment that night because he is a responsible citizen) and he's touching her boob, under the shirt, over the bra.

It's amazing.

It's better than amazing, it's fantastic, no, it's eye-openingly freakin—

Then she pulls away and mutters something about an early morning and he smiles a little goofily because he's so intoxicated (because of the alcohol, mostly, but he'd like to think also because of the way she smells...she smells  _so_  good) and she hesitates before leaning in again and planting a soft kiss on his lips.

He's pretty sure it was all a dream, a drunken fabrication of his perfect dream girl because she was almost too good to be true. The only thing wrong with her was pretty much the fact she left.

Imagine his surprise when he wakes up in his car the next morning, fifteen minutes late for work, and with an old gum wrapper stuck to his forehead that he just can't seem to be able to peel off. He feels pretty shitty. Not a dream afterall.

When he does get to work, changes into his uniform and gets to their daily briefing—get this—she's there. Not as like a victim, which would be bad, or a suspect, which would be slightly less worse but as his boss. She's not his actual boss, but technically everybody knows the FBI outranks the 'normal' cops. The ones who actually do all the work.

Pretty great story, huh? His own version of Grey's frickin' Anatomy, and yes, he watches that show and it's pure genius and please don't tell anyone (Isaac is still not letting go the fact he walked in on him watching that one episode of Gossip Girl). Something about  _Stilinski's Anatomy_  that was slightly less appealing, but it's not like he was planning on selling his life story anytime soon anyway.

_AWKWARD AND ALWAYS HUNGRY: the autobiography_

He sneaks in, but everyone sees him anyway,  _of course_ , and he sits down quietly, but still makes a lot of noise,  _of course_ , and to make things worse,  _of course_ , the sheriff decides not to continue his talk until he makes eye contact with him. He tries to look at the strawberry blonde instead, but she is very keen on staring at his  _dad_  instead, which is not like, super weird and uncomfortable.

"Stiles, glad you could join us," his dad states sternly and without skipping a beat he retorts, with a hint of cynicism, "I'm glad for you all, too."

He earns a few laughs before his father, the sheriff, continues talking about the regular stuff like what happened during night shift, ongoing small cases, yada yada. He turns to Scott, who's wearing sunglasses,  _inside_ , talk about pretentious, and looks like he _just_  woke up.

"You look like shit."

"I have a massive hangover, what's your excuse?" Scott retorts monotone, before punching him in the arm, "Thanks for letting Allison bring me home, by the way. I was so drunk I grabbed her ass and now she keeps sending me weird looks. I'm going with the I Honestly Don't Remember Anything That Happened Since Birth look."

He rubs his arm, sending him a glare, "What? I don't blame you. She looked hot yesterday."

"She always looks beautiful," Scott retorts before he leans closer, lowering his voice, like they're being shadowed by James Bond or back in third grade and afraid of being called out by the teacher, "Why are  _you_  late?"

"I'm sorry, we don't all have a personal assistant to pull us out of our beds every morning and make us breakfast," he remarks sarcastically, kind of regretting the fact he doesn't have a partner like Allison who literally brings Scott a cup of fresh coffee and a muffin each morning and he's pretty sure even tucks him in at night. They're that good of partners. To clarify, he adds, "I overslept."

Scott nods, ignoring his comments and the underlying insults out of habit, and Stiles clears his throat casually, as he nudges towards the strawberry blonde, "Sooooo, who's the chick—lady…. _girl_?"

Casual. Totally his thing.

"Huh?"

Stiles nods towards the girl from last night. Scott's eyes light up with understanding as he tries to remember what the sheriff told them ten minutes earlier, "Oh, her. She's from the FBI. Probably here for the serial killer or something."

Right. The serial killer. He forgot to mention the serial killer. Next to helping those three grandmas cross the street and getting high school kids to stop spray painting the walls with hilarious, uhm, he means  _vulgar_  texts, there's a serial killer roaming the streets.

Well, technically only two people have been air quote, air quote murdered and it could be from natural causes (their only forensic pathologist recently died of old age, and they hadn't hired a new one yet due to lack of applications, not willingness) but if there's certainty in life; it's death, taxes and the fact the FBI does not trust them to handle anything on their own.

Damn. He can't believe he forgot to mention the serial killer. Those usually spice up the story. Not that he likes the fact there might be a serial killer roaming the streets. It totally sucks, but, for entertainment purposes, which is totally trivial compared to the human life, it's great. Not  _great_ , great, but, whatever.

Isaac leans over from the table next to them, not taking his eyes off the sheriff, he almost awkwardly remarks, "She's totally hot, isn't she?"

"Also, out of your league, Lahey, so out of your league," Stiles snaps back quietly, pushing him back towards his seat because for some unknown reason Stiles carries a lot of hatred for the guy. It's just his face, his annoyingly perfect face, and that hair, that HAIR is just blatantly arrogant and his—okay, getting off topic here.

Scott snickers, patting his knee. "Same goes for you, dude."

He's about to protest, maybe gloat about the fact (or flagrantly rub in his face in it) he made out with the unnamed beauty last night. Then something distracts him.

Stiles sits up straight, the hairs on his arms practically standing up straight as his father's stern voice booms through the room, "Stiles, can I see you in my office in a minute?"

He swallows hard. His story might come to an end, soon, because he'll be dead and murdered and killed by his own father.

.

"So, what happened?" Scott asks curiously as he loads his gear into his police car as Stiles leans against his own.

Using his hands to lively support what he's saying, he starts of his babbling, "First, he reminded me that on multiple occasions I failed my physical test because I couldn't run 1.5 miles in under 10 minutes, that the only reason I passed the police academy was because they couldn't handle my sarcastic comments for another year and the fact I once tried to catch a suspect with a baseball bat—"

"We get it," Scott emphasizes, knowing this list could possibly go on forever. Stiles, his absolute best friend, was an amazing human being, and he was good with people and solving cases, but the actual cop thing wasn't really his expertise.

"He promoted me to detective because, and I quote, ' _the FBI thinks we look stupid if we only have cops and don't have any detectives_ ' but I'll take it. I mean, I'll still have to do all the duties I had before like patrolling and other boring stuff and he won't gave me a raise and I basically already advise the entire department on how to solve cases, but—okay, it's just a dumb title."

The more he thinks about this sudden, FBI-pressured promotion, the more it just seems like a useless facade to please the system on paper. On paper, because in reality, none of it actually goes down the way it's supposed to go down. Like this title. He'd be surprised if he'd be treated like anything else but a signature on a piece of paper concluding the case was solved without him being included in it whatsoever.

"Wow, really? I thought he was going to fire you," Isaac pipes up and Stiles sends him an icy glance, deciding not to give him the satisfaction of a lengthy, soul penetrating, hair rising glare. He's better than that.

"The only catch was I'd have to cooperate with the FBI and I said that was fine as long as it wasn't your dad," Stiles chuckles lowly and Scott rolls his eyes. "What, he's a dick!"

Scott tilts his head, as if thinking about it before just offering a casual shrug.

"You know what," Isaac looks up from his pudding, pointing his spoon at Stiles, who's wondering why the hell Isaac Lahey carries around pudding and where did he get it because he could definitely use some, "He probably only promoted you because you suck at the actual cop stuff."

"What he means is—you're really smart," Scott speaks up, blocking any hurtful comments Stiles was about to make about his other friend. "And besides, you once lit your...cop...car...on...fire?"

Stiles huffs, one little accident with some gasoline and a suspect's cigarette and he's not a good cop, please. He yanks Isaac's pudding from his hand and dips his spoon into it, "I'm still a cop, I still have to write parking tickets and train rookies and drive drunk people home. This whole detective thing? It's just for show."

"Now that," Allison remarks playfully as she hands her bag to Scott for him to put into their car, "Makes sense."

Stiles sends her a huge fake smile before scrunching his face up and flipping her the bird, to which she responds by sticking out her tongue.

As he gets in his car, ready to start his patrol, he realizes that, now being a detective and all, he's going to spend a lot of time with that FBI-lady. And he totally doesn't almost back up into a tree because he's thinking about the way she smiled at him, a little hesitant but breathtaking, before kissing him one last time.

Nope. He didn't.

.

Lydia Martin. That's her name. Allison told him over lunch the next day because  _of course_  she befriended her and painted her nails and braided her hair before he even had the chance to ask her name.

Even her name sounds like the best thing he's ever heard. And he's not about to get obsessed by her, or come across as some stalkerish freak. He's a professional, who happened to meet the girl of his dreams aka his boss in a sleazy bar last night, but no, he's not thinking about her the  _entire_  day and he doesn't need to know  _everything_  about her.

Still, a name would be nice. And now he has one.

He spend all morning on studying every little detail of the 'serial killer' cases and gave his dad's office a small make-over in the process because he knew she was coming over for a meeting later and well—he wasn't about to look like an uninformed and clueless idiot who caught a bad case of nepotism.

Someone knocks on the door and he knows it's her. Partly because she was the only person he was expecting today and mostly because his dad's office and it's door was two/thirds made out of glass.

She's even more beautiful than he remembered (or it could be the fact he hadn't drank any booze and his vision wasn't blurry, or that it was light outside right now and he could see her face so much more clearly). Her hair shined and looked nice and silky, even in the ugly office lights, and her eyes were just so pretty and big and hazel. 

God, he sounded like such a nerd, even in his head. Whatever. He  _was_  a nerd.

And she.. She wasn't.

"What's all this?"

Her voice is sharp and distant as she runs her fingers over some of the strings he pinned to the serial killer mood board he set up in his dad's office. She catches him off guard but she doesn't have to know that. He is a professional. Her beauty will not silence him. To be fair to her remarkably good looks, not much in the world was able to shut him up.

"Well, the green strings are solved. Yellow is to be determined and blue, well, blue is just pretty."

"And red?" She raises an eyebrow questioningly, putting her suitcase on the desk in between them as she indiscreetly checks him out while his back is towards her. A girl is allowed to look.

(She was surprised, and not pleasantly, when she saw last night's mistake was at her new job.

He stumbled in, minutes too late, and at first she was annoyed. Almost scared, even, because the ball was completely in his court. He could ruin the respect the people had for her by just casually mentioning she wasn't hard to get at all; Girl Offered Who Will Make-Out With You In Your Cheap Car In Return For One Drink And A Cheesy Pickup Line. He wouldn't be the first to do so.

He didn't say anything though, not then and not in the days following. It was sweet. He was kind of cute, in a dorky way, but she didn't need a reason to get attached to this town.

He wasn't her usual type anyway. He was the type that basically wrote the book on attachment, what just happened to be an allergy of hers.)

"Red is unsolved," he answers casually as he pins another red string to a picture of Peter Hale. He had no involvement to the case whatsoever but there was something about his face that just bugged the hell out of him and probed him to hang up his picture on the board.

She takes another look at the board, squinting her eyes as if she's missing something, "There's only red on the board."

He whips his head around to look at her, scratching the back of his neck. "Gee, thanks for pointing that out. I had no clue," he remarks sarcastically as he leans back against the desk.

"I'm Lydia, by the way," she tells him idly as she looks at a file, refusing to make eye contact even though she can feel his eyes burning into the side of her face. "Lydia Martin."

"I know," he states, the corners of his lips turning up, not caring he just totally gave his whole 'You're going to act like nothing happened? Fine, I'm twelve so I will, too' act away, "I'm Stiles."

"Your parents called you Stiles Stilinski?" She arches her brow and he brushes her off with a deep sigh. Thanks mom,  _dad_. (He ignores the way his heart skips a beat because she knows his name, too.)

"No, it's just what I go by."

She looks like she wants to ask more, but decides against and she finally just offers a careless shrug.

Her voice distant and professional, "Nice to meet you, Stiles."

"Really?" He questions, eyebrows raised, "Because you kind of look like you're in pain, or something. Not that you don't look beautiful, because you do, like you're  _really_  beautiful, honestly, and oh my God, I totally didn't mean that in an inappropriate way, since we did make-out that one time, and all, not that I'm just saying you are because we did, but oh,  _shit_ , I'll just shut up now."

He looks embarrassed as he rubs his neck with both hands, lowering his gaze as if to curse himself. It's cute, in a nerdy way. Despite herself, a small smile forms on her face, that she desperately tries to hide by biting down on her bottom lip and pretending to straighten out her powder pink blazer.

She clears her throat as she looks at the blush creeping up his neck and spreading over his cheeks, "Detective, let's just get to the case, okay?" It's kind of adorable he flushes at practically everything she says.

"O-okay," he stutters, finally, nodding confidently as he perches a box full of files on top of his dad's desk. He mumbles, "If by case you mean a vague Dan Brown novel complex type of situation we're just guessing at, sure."

She listens carefully as he goes over every little detail in the case, and explains to her that they haven't received a definitive autopsy report yet (the pathologist was new and the mail was slow and a lot of small town excuses, honestly), to which she finally interrupts him and suggest they go see Dr. Yukimura.

The tone of her voice makes it clear she isn't planning on spending any more time than necessary with him, or in this town.

And thus, their investigation (and his neverending journey of socially awkward embarrassment) finally commences.

He's both thrilled and terrified at the same time.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so this it. chapter one. pls tell me what u think, what i could change or what u liked or hated or anything really. i want to know if ppl are interested thats why im talkin like a hipster in this moment okay. thanks v much.
> 
> please comment if you didn't like it (with suggestions or improvements) or feel like lying anyway and i'm totally fishing for compliments youre so on to me. pls comment anyway even though im an attention horny whore thank you
> 
> also if u love urself, watch the flash youre welcome


	2. when you walked into the room just then it's like the sun came out

. 

_chapter two: when you walked into the room just then it's like the sun came out_

 

So it’s not like he’s obsessed or something and he knows he’s a bad person for doing so but he couldn’t help but get a little, tiny bit excited when they announced they’d found another victim and her name flashed on his phone. He couldn’t believe she called him!

It’s because she found a dead body, of course, but still. She called him.

It got less exciting after the second time because well, another person died and after the third he got a little gloomy about it. Then there’s a fourth, and a fifth and he and Lydia are forced to bond over bad watery coffee, possible murder suspects and the stench of human remains in the middle of the night.

(He thinks this can’t possibly be a good sign for their relationship. Not that they have one, nor that he could ever dream of having one with her, but still. It isn’t the type of story you tell your grandkids about.)

He hates murderers. He’s not going to go as far as to say they are horrible, disgusting, heartless people that deserve to have their shampoo exchanged with a bottle of Nair, but yes, they actually kind of are and do.

The sixth body is found near a pool and when he sees her hunched next to the body, in her boots and her hair in a messy bun he doesn’t feel as sick. He still feels sick because there’s something completely gut wrenching about the smell of blood and chlorine mixed together plus he thinks he just stepped into something that resembles brain matter, but less. (When he arrived at the scene of the first body, he fainted. The look on Lydia's face when he woke up had been worse than the shame he was going to feel for the rest of his life and the time it would take to get the blood off his jacket combined. Although, he was kind of getting used to her bitchy-resting face.)

“Blow to the head. Cut throat. Strangled. I’m starting to see a pattern here,” she yawns as she carefully jabs the victim’s tie aside with a pen to get to his ID.

“Adrian Harris,” Stiles reads out loud after she hands him the wallet with her adorably little hand, “42. Chemistry teacher. Hated kids. Probably skipped his midlife crisis to anonymously criticize the chemical incorrectness of Breaking Bad online.”

“Does it say that on his ID?” Lydia cocks an eyebrow, an amused smirk playing on her lips (despite her best efforts to hide it) as she looks up at him from under her eyelashes and he feels a rush of tingles go up his spine. What the hell. Did he just magically end up in a Disney movie? Is someone going to break out in song soon?

He shrugs idly, can’t seem to feel his limbs all of a sudden, “Just a guess. But seems legit, right?”

She sends him a pointed look and he refers from asking her if she's a princess.

“Isn’t he like the third teacher we’ve found? Seems like someone wasn’t happy about their final grades,” Lydia sighs, standing up and taking off her gloves to run a hand through her hair.

She rubs her temples with her fingers, in a frustrated manner and he thinks she looks tired. Pretty, but tired. He wants to reach out and squeeze her shoulder, touch her really, but he realizes that might be creepy (and unwanted) just in time.

“No witnesses, important evidence… They don’t work at the same school, as a matter of fact the other two people we found have probably never even been anywhere near a high school considering we found one frolocking in the woods, high on mushrooms and the other one about to illegally break into a convenience store. What’s the deal here?” Her voice is as exasperated as he feels.

“There’s got to be a link here. Something that connects them. A pattern,” he offers, caressing his chin as if that’ll magically provide the right answer while he idly stares at the lifeless body on the ground. Come on. He didn’t take those boring criminology classes at college for nothing.

“Wait...three teachers, two teenagers, a nurse and a doctor murdered in the  _exact_  same way.” He looks at her like she's supposed to know what he's talking about.

“So?” Lydia gives him an expectant look, and he remembers they’re not friends. Or at least, she doesn’t want to be his.

“This sound an awful lot like a ritual sacrifice,” he says matter of factly, and turns out his college education was good for something. That’s mythology 101 for ya, biatch!

She brushes him off, starting to walk back to her car and she signals for the forensic team to wrap up the scene. “That’s ridiculous. This is Beacon Hills, not Salem.”

“Most sacrifices include certain groups like pure souls, virgins or—or philosophers and healers,” he adds, trying to keep up with her. He's pretty sure he saw an documentary about this on Discovery, too. Useless facts were kind of his thing. Thanks memory. He raises his eyebrows, grabbing her arm to stop her, his voice more confident this time, “Doesn’t that sound familiar?”

She looks at him, her eyes scanning his face before after what seems like an eternity, she finally sighs, wrapping her arms around herself. His heart is pounding in his chest and he doesn’t know why.

“Fine. We’ll look into it tomorrow. At a decent hour after I’ve showered and had a breakfast that doesn’t include  _fat_  as the main ingredient.”

He smiles thankfully, and goofily because that’s just his thing, as he opens her car door for her. She smiles politely, but her eyes remain distant as she mutters a thanks.

“Hey, if you’re serious about that breakfast, I know a great place,” he offers, raising his eyebrows as he smiles at her like an idiot even though she furrows her brow in response to his spontaneous request. He looks hopeful, but not desperate, and something in her chest twinges as his smile widens even more. She doesn't know why he's so enchanted by her.

Going over it in her brain which screams it’s a bad idea (a guy who touched her boob that one night and couldn't seem to let it go and is incredibly sweet despite of it and doesn't treat her like trash, wants to have breakfast with her), her mouth seems to think otherwise, and forms her next words before she even realizes she’s saying them.

“Does it have coffee that doesn't taste like sewer water?”

.

 

They have lots of breakfasts from that moment on. He knew she couldn't resist a good Finstock’s waffle. Those things were like heaven.

They usually only talk about work and work and work or she listens to him babble about his theories on the walking dead but they don’t talk about anything too personal. He knows Lydia doesn't want to be his friend, and he knows she doesn't want to know anything about him, but he hates silence.

So he settles for one-sided conversations and small amused smiles and disbelieving looks now and then. Besides, he wouldn't trade a breakfast with Lydia Martin for the quick bowl of fruit loops he inhales in the morning while he showers. Turns out a closed toilet lid is a pretty good substitute for a kitchen table. Yes, he multitasks because it means twenty minutes more of sleep. And he loves sleeping.

Even though he gladly hands in an extra sixty minutes of sleep he could be having to watch her munch on those waffles and wish he was a waffle himself. She does this thing where she closes her eyes whenever she takes a bite (and sometimes even lets out these little breathy moans) and it totally makes him picture that face in a different situation.

That’s right. The sex situation.

(He hesitated about picking up a pamphlet at the convenience store, something like So You’re A Dirty Horndog: Help For Guys In Their Early Twenties Who Act Like Teenage Boys Whenever They’re Around Strawberry Blondes but he couldn't risk anyone finding out. If he's one thing he's learned from his father it's to never carry around heavy proof of anything.)

After having established he was kind of right about the whole ritual sacrifices thing, they hadn't really made any more progress in the case. This killer was good. Freaky good.

One breakfast, over the muffin that he was currently devouring, he tells her she looks nice today, wearing a green corporate dress that brings out her eyes (and shows off her curves, let’s not pretend he didn't notice) and she thanks him quietly, her eyes turning soft. That’s before he sees distrust wash over her as she sits back against the booth and eyes him warily.

“You know, Stiles, you don’t have to keep complimenting me, I’m not going to fire you if you don’t.”

“Well, that’s awesome, but I don’t do it because I think that’s what you want," he chuckles lowly, looking like he's thinking over her words for the first time, "And I don't think you have the jurisdiction to fire me anyway.” She sends him a look, jaw set, but doesn't say anything.

“Then why?” She finally asks after a few moments as he continues to eat his heavenly chocolate chip breakfast muffin. Her strained voice sounds a little insecure and still, distrustful.

He doesn't know why she is questioning him. She must be told she's pretty all the time. She isn't the kind of girl who doesn't know she’s pretty, he knows that much, and she isn't the kind of girl who pines after boys, he also knows that, but he thinks some guys must've really screwed her up. Not that he’s saying these things to fix her, or to get in her pants, even though that’d be a totally cool side result, but he just likes to say things that are true. And truth is, she looks really nice in that dress.

He tells her this, the latter part, because he doesn't think she wants to hear about his psychoanalysis of her. It's not that he thinks she's just pretty, because over the past few weeks he's learned she's also smart, so smart, and caring, trying to save strangers who don't even like her, and brave and strong and lots of things he can't even describe. He wants to figure her out, but she never gives him the chance.

Finally she cracks a small smile, looking down at her empty plate as she feels his gaze burning on her.

(She suddenly feels shy. She never feels shy. And it was never this hard to not be shy when she didn’t know him. But he’s penetrated his way into her life, because he’s very persistent to the point it’s annoying and a little endearing, too, and this isn’t a thing she normally does.

Having breakfast, and sharing personal stuff and supporting each other—the whole partner thing. She doesn’t have partners because she works better alone. She’s a leader, usually without followers. She does what she has to do, what has to be done, and some people don't like her approach.

Stiles, though, he seems very keen on following her everywhere. Sometimes she catches him looking at her like she is the most precious thing in the world and she doesn't know why. She knows the consequences of that, though, has them embedded in her brain and can’t seem to make him understand them.

She will ruin him. This sweet, adorable, untouched guy. She will use him, break him and discard him as soon as her boss calls her and tells her he has a new job for her and she’s painfully aware of this fact. She knows she’s a bad person and she can’t seem to want to change that. She will ruin him, and she can’t do that to him. Not this time.

It’s not that she couldn’t use a friend like him, it’s that she doesn’t want one.)

“You’re sweet, Stiles, one day you’re going to make a girl very lucky,” she finally offers, hopefully implying the unsaid.  _We will never be together, you can’t ever say anything that will make me change my mind, I will never be with someone like you._

He gets the message, but grins anyway, because that’s what he does and she hates it. He’s like a loyal puppy. A loyal little annoying puppy who keeps shitting on her carpet.

Another morning, he tells her about his mom.

It’s not like he planned to tell her a sob story to get a sympathy lay or anything, his brain didn’t function like that and he wasn’t that horrible of a person, but it kind of just happened.

She was telling him about a case in which a man murdered his own wife. Her doctor wouldn’t allow euthanization even though she explicitly said that if her dementia got worse she wouldn’t want to live. It hit awfully close to home.

“He said her quality of life didn’t suffer because of it. Besides the fact she couldn’t remember her own kids, or her husband’s name,” Lydia huffs, her voice bitter as stabs her waffle with her fork. Sometimes she hates the system. Science and ethics, the epitome of archfrenemies. “I’m not justifying what he did, because it’s against the law—but can you imagine loving someone who doesn’t remember you?”

“Yes,” he squeaks out, before he realizes it. He swallows hard, but his throat still feels dry. He does know how it feels and there isn’t a feeling worse in the world.

Her head shoots up as she gives him a questioning look, a strand of hair slipping away from her ear and into her face, and oh God, she must think he’s being a weird obsessive freak who’s talking about his crush (her) in code language or something so he clarifies.

“My mom, she…” He pauses, searching for the right words, thinking about not continuing at all. The only person who he’s ever told about it was Scott and that was only because Scott was there when it all happened (the diagnosis, the day his mother yelled at him to get out of her house, the day day she died) and Lydia probably didn’t even want to know.

It’s then she covers his hand with her own, squeezing comfortably as she looks at him, her eyes concerned. 

(She’s breaking her own rule of not touching him unless absolutely necessary—as in knife to throat, about to be hit by bullet, gaping wound I need to apply pressure to, necessary.

But right now, her heart is also breaking into a million, tiny pieces and the only way she knows how to fix this broken look on his face is to kiss him, because that’s how she fixes guys, and that isn’t a valid option right now.

Instead, she offers him comfort by holding his hand, something she isn’t sorry about, at all.)

“She suffered from frontotemporal dementia, the kind you can get when you’re still young, you know?” He explains, distantly frowning at the table. If he doesn’t look up, he won’t cry.

“Your mom, she wasn’t...” Lydia shakes her head a little to herself, trying to find the right words to offer any sort of comfort besides rubbing circles on his skin with her thumb. He was a good guy, even if she didn't treat him like one. 

“I was ten and I didn’t understand how my mother couldn’t love me, at once, out of nowhere,” he stumbles to find the right words, his brow furrowed in thought. “My own mother.”

He's been nice to her, she tells herself, he's been so good to her. She has to return the favor, even if it's just once.

“She loved you, I know she didn’t remember she did, but she did. I know science says love is something chemical, something that happens in your brain and gets lost when your brain loses function, but I refuse to believe that,” she states, almost determinedly as she squeezes his fingers, making him look up. She was a woman of science, of cold hard facts and blatant truths, but she didn’t believe in a world in which Stiles wasn’t loved by his own mother. “She loved you.”

“Thanks,” he breathes after a moment, using his free hand to wipe at his eyes before tears could fall. He puts his goofy smile back on his face, and her heart flutters a little. She’s just happy he’s smiling, she tells herself, she’s happy that for now, he’s fixed.

She lets go of his hand, but feels it’s presence for a long time after.

Then there’s the infamous breakfast in which he’s shows her a video of a bunny eating raspberries on his phone and had to slip next to her in the booth as to not strain his arms. As if he’s ever going to miss watching that video when it’s playing in a 10 miles radius of him.

She mumbles something about it being too early for this but she’s laughing, because no one’s immune to raspberry eating bunnies, and they both freeze as her hand lands on his thigh. He looks at her and she looks back at him as they blink once, twice and he sees her swallow hard as he wets his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue.

Then, the waitress clears her throat asking about refills or something (talk about a cockblock, damnit) and Lydia removes her hand quickly as if she just burned herself. There are many things he can imply here (him being a smoking hot piece of ass being on top of the list) but all he can think about is the sparks running up the back of his spine.

They don’t talk about it, but they don’t have to really. He knows it was an accident and she doesn’t like him like that and these moments for her are moments of weaknesses with lack of better alternatives and yada yada yada. Doesn’t mean he can’t think about it now and then. Like, when he’s in bed alone.

He knows those are desperate moments he clings onto to keep his hope alive, that maybe she likes him a little bit, too (that maybe, if she was drunk and blind and deaf and he was the only man left alive, maybe she’d say yes), but he can’t not hope. He doesn’t think there’s a world in which there isn’t hope, at least not one he wants to live in.

.

“Hey Isaac,” Rookie Cora bites down on her bottom lip, looking up at her superior officer (the perks of a considerably low budget and mixed genders changing room, the cons being they don’t get to shower unless they want the whole office to see their junk, oh, and  _hair_ , everywhere). “Can you maybe help me with my vest? I can’t reach the zipper and I don’t really feel like taking a bullet in the back without protection.”

“Sure,” he says, as he moves her hair away and zips her up before patting her on the shoulder. “All done.”

“Ouch,” Scott comments, “Cora looks like he just kicked a puppy. A newborn puppy. Her  _own_  newborn puppy.”

Stiles snickers as he looks at the scene in front of them, “At least Cora is subtle about it. Yesterday Rookie Tate asked him if he wanted to make-out and he thought she was joking and laughed at her. She broke his gun, do not ask me how.”

“He’s so clueless, it’d be cute if it wasn’t so annoying,” Allison laughs as she pulls on her boot, moving her hair onto her other shoulder to keep it out of her face. “It constantly smells like hormones whenever I enter a room with him in it.”

“He’s not used to people liking him,” Scott defends him, “He had a terrible childhood. I mean, when he was new here, he was afraid to make eye contact for days.”

“In other words, he’s slow.

Scott punches Stiles on the shoulder, before continuing to pull his shirt over his head. “I don’t get what you have against him. Do you have a thing for Malia? Cora? Are you jealous?”

Stiles looks at Allison as she shamelessly checks out Scott’s abs, even going as far as licking her lips. He quickly shakes it off, he’s clearly seeing things he doesn't even want to see. Man, he’s been watching too many Nicholas Sparks movies.

“I obviously don’t. At the moment my heart is reserved for that little strawberry blonde vixen with the smart mouth and the cute butt that goes by the name of—”

“Lydia!” Scott calls out and Allison tries to hide her laugh, quickly getting up to stand beside Scott and hiding her mouth behind his shoulder.

“Exactly,” Stiles replies with a wide, goofy grin and Scott sends him a panicked look. What’s his problem?

“No,  _Lydia_ ,” he motions his head to behind him, looking apologetic for not tackling him when necessary. “As in, Hi Lydia, good morning.”

“Officers,” Lydia states with a smirk, hiding her own laugh as Stiles turns around with a red face and a missing hole in his body the size of Texas that used to hold his pride, “Detective.”

Yeah, Scott, what the hell. Thanks for throwing him in front of the bus. He spots Isaac’s amused smirk from across the room and his blood boils. _Isaac Lahey_.

(This was a 100 percent his fault. He probably created the iceberg that sank the Titanic, he crashed Amelia Earhart’s plane, he killed Dobby, he made Lydia walk into this room the exact moment he was telling his friends how he was practically going to marry her.)

She thinks he’s an idiot. She totally does.

He nods at her, before scrambling onto his feet, practically running towards the exit of their locker room. It’s not like his crush on her was a secret, everyone and their mother and their mother knew, including Lydia, but it was a different story actually admitting the words ‘I’m pretty much in love with Lydia Martin and I will be with her’ out loud.

Allison and Scott share a look before both laughing a little and following after Stiles. Allison sends Scott a questioning look before calling out after him, “Stiles, aren't you supposed to be going into the other direction?”

“No, I’m just going to go and pretend I'm doing paperwork, while I plan my funeral arrangements.”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song is by gabrielle aplin i think we all know and cried about this one before all hail the queen
> 
> the bunny eating raspberries viDEO IS REAL AND I WONT LET IT DIE IT MUST GO VIRAL
> 
> thank you so much for all the feedback and kudos, hope you guys liked this one:)


	3. you say that i waste my time but i can't get you off my mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiiii sorry for the long wait... here's another chapter!  
> there's a little more scallison in this chapter because i hate myself
> 
> title of the chapter is taken from honey honey from abba because it's abba and abba is awesome lets be real

_._

_chapter three: you say that i waste my time but i can't get you off my mind_

 

“Try one.”

“No way, Stiles.”

“C’mon, it’s part of being a police officer.”

“I’m an FBI agent.”

“Not right now you’re not. You’re with us, and we practically need them to survive.”

“I said no.”

He pushes the delicious sugary sweetness up in her face and she slaps it away quickly, her stomach rumbling and her abs turning on her. Traitors. We worked so hard for this and now you lose it at the mere sight of diabetes.

“Come on, you know you want to.”

He's so close she can count every freckle on his face, her fiery eyes meeting his chocolate brown orbs, a warm unfamiliar feeling spreading across her stomach causing her to look away and instead glare at the dirty road in front of her.

“I’m not trying the damn donut, Stilinski, now drop it.”

“Gee, you could really use the sugar to make you less cranky.”

He dangles it in front of her face, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. She tightens her grip on the steering wheel, “And you could really use a punch in the mouth to shut you up for once, but I’m not shoving my fist up your face either, now, am I?”

She feels half bad about causing his eyebrows to knit together in defeat. He slumps in his seat, muttering something about ‘sugar deficits’ as he stuffs another one in his mouth. 

God, has she ever been more jealous?

(Of Stiles.

Not the donut.

Definitely. _Not_. The Donut.

Never.)

.

“Wow, I knew Allison could throw some dirty looks but I just almost literally shit my pants because of that side eye she threw you,” Stiles widens his eyes as his best friend’s partner passes them in the cafeteria. “Is she mad or something? She looks about ready to add your name to the list of missing persons.”

“She isn’t talking to me,” Scott answers quietly as he leans his chin on his left hand, stuffing his face with fries with the other. He looks a little depressed, managing to look like a cute fluffy puppy who accidentally peed in the living room.

Stiles snorts, taking a bite of his burger with one hand, checking his texts with the other while simultaneously—and disgustingly, with food falling from his mouth—replying and rolling his eyes (the guy had some real talents when it came to multitasking), “Did you tell her that archery isn't a real sport again?”

“No, the other night she told me she kind of liked me, like _liked_ liked me and then Iiiii kind of...called her...a guy?” Scott blurts out, his eyebrows knitted together as he swallows hard. Stiles tries hard to contain his laughter as his best friend groans, leaning his head down on the table as he adds, “I really screwed up.”

“You called her a guy? Gee, Scott, has that one ever worked for you before?” Stiles finally cracks up, a small laugh escaping his lips. “Does that one _ever_ help you pick up girls?”

(He imagines telling Lydia she looks like a guy and practically feels the claw marks forming in his forearm.)

“Kind of!” He defends himself, sitting back up and glancing over at Allison quietly. "I _kind of_ called her a guy and I didn't realize _she_ was picking _me_ up."

“You called her a guy or you didn’t, Scott. I mean there isn’t a thin line between calling someone a guy and not calling someone a guy. Unless you called her a transgender or something, which would be worse unless you meant she used to be a boy because at least that would be some sort of complim—”

“Stiles, seriously, just—shut up." Scott pinches the bridge of his nose as if he's trying to make sense of it himself. "We were shadowing this guy who’s on parole and eating donuts and then she had like white powder on her nose and I didn’t want her to look like, you know, a crack addict or something while we were at work—”

“Understandable,” Stiles nods along, taking another bite of his burger (problems were important but also, burgers, food, mostly).

“So I brushed it off, right? And then she looked at me and there was like this weird thing where we looked at each other for three seconds too long—”

“Oh yeah, the three seconds too long look. That either means a cowboy stare off or a romantic confession coming,” he states with a mouth full, licking his fingers clean because it’s not like Scott is actually listening to any of his commentary. It doesn't have to be completely understandable.

“And then she just said she liked me and I didn’t know what to say because she caught me off guard, and, I mean we’ve known each other for years and she's ALLISON so I started rambling about seeing her like one of the guys and then—” he finally takes a breath, running a hand over his hair nervously, “she almost punched me in the throat and she would’ve if it hadn’t been for the dude driving off in his stupid truck.”

“Uhm, yeah, _duh_! I mean she basically confesses her feelings for you which probably, knowing Miss I Can Take Care Of Myself I Don’t Need Anyone Argent, took her a long time to even say out loud and then you call her one of the guys? I mean, I’m not a woman but I am a feminist and I have to say these gender roles you’re using are really upsetting and frankly, Scott, they’re gross. Personally, I’m offended on behalf of the entire female popu—” Scott cuts him off.

“I know! It’s not even what I wanted to say but I just, like, I don’t know, I’m not—I’m not a talker! Especially not when there’s a surprise heartfelt confession that I have to respond to,” he stumbles, before sighing and leaning back in his chair. “She _hates_ me right now and not even half of my shift is over, which means I still have six hours left. With Allison. In one car. In silence. Armed. With guns. Guns kill people.”

“So you _do_ like her? Man, I knew it. Where’s Lahey, he owes me five bucks—”

“You bet on my love life?”

Stiles shrugs, “Of course, I couldn’t resist. That buffoon Lahey was sure you were into Cora but I told him, _no way_ , because everyone knows that _if_ , and only if, Cora has actual human feelings, which she probably doesn’t, I mean, she’s a Hale, they would be for Isaac. But since he’s still keeping up that annoying oblivious schoolboy act, I just won myself five bucks.” He nods proudly, holding up his hand for a high five.

Scott raises his eyebrows, ignoring his hand, “You knew all of that and still only bet him for five bucks?” Stiles lowers his arm, rolling his eyes, as he crosses his arms, “Whatever. I still won.”

Scott stands up, grabbing his lunch tray and smartly not tripping over Allison’s extended foot (which does earn him an middle finger by said brunette) as Stiles trails behind him. “Wait, you never answered my question!”

They reach the hallway and Scott pulls him to the side, just around the corner. “Will you quiet down? Allison probably already told half the station that I have crabs, or—”

“You gavE ALLISON CRABS?” Stiles eyes widen and Scott smacks his head as he nervously smiles over to, _thanks Stiles_ , half the station frozen in their position.

“S…sticks. Crab sticks. Crab sticks for dinner? I can’t believe you got her crab sticks for dinner, Scott! That’s so not kosher,” Stiles tries, badly acted, looking at his colleagues and Scott shakes his head to himself. “Look, I—Allison, she’s… She’s Allison. She’s beautiful and badass and perfect and she’s my partner. She’s Allison. I—I love her.”

“Oh my God, I need to find Lahey. Wait, just lemme get him. This is too good—”

“Will you focus for second?” Scott replies sternly, as he pulls him back and Stiles nods enthusiastically. “Don’t tell me you have a ring picked out because I’ll make sure Lahey will never hear the end of that. _Cora_. What a joke.” He adds a snort for the full effect.

Scott sends him his famous Seriously, I Know I'm Used To Your Antics But Please Tone It Down While We're In Public! look and Stiles pretends to zip his mouth. Scott sighs, rubbing his face before leaning back against the wall. “I love her, and I want to tell her, but I can’t. I mean we’ve been partners for two years now and she’s my best friend—”

Stiles clears his throat loudly, sending him a glare. Scott rolls his eyes, “ _Second_ best friend and I don’t want to ruin that.”

As if on cue, Allison passes them in the hallway, her arms crossed she focuses her eyes on the slightly taller and skinnier guy, “Stiles, hi, will you please tell Officer McCall I’ll be waiting in the car for exactly 120 seconds before I leave without his idiotic ass?” She smiles sweetly, not even waiting for an answer before marching on.

Stiles claps him on the shoulder as they both look at Allison’s retreating form. “To me it looks like it’s already ruined. The only thing you can do is try and fix it by telling the truth.”

Scotts nods, once, then again, firmly as Stiles sends him a thumbs up before disappearing into the direction which an different guy with curly hair is heading before he can even so much as ask his best friend to try and keep it quiet.

“LaheY, WAIT UP, I HAVE SOME GREAT NEWS FOR YOU, BUDDY! LAHEY, STOP IGNORING ME! _LAHEY_!”

Scott sighs. Just another day at Beacon Hills’ sheriff’s station.

.

“So, any more news on your crazy witch theory?”

He looks really cute in his uniform. She hates it.

He raises his eyebrow as he looks up from his computer. He groans, rubbing his face, “No. And I thought we already established I was right?”

“Yes, yes, virgins, guardians, philosophers, etcetera, etcetera,” Lydia rolls her eyes, hands up in defense. His theory sounded really good, but she wasn’t about to admit that. She was usually one to save the cases, that’s why they brought her in after all.

“I’ve extended every possible way to get any further with this case and it’s frustrating because this guy, this stupid frickin’ guy is going around killing random innocent people and for _what_?” His hands are moving rapidly as he talks and Lydia stares at them shamelessly, biting down on her lip as she imagines what else those hands could do (she knows she’s a bad person). “And I _can’t_ figure out what’s next and there’ve been eight murders and I feel like kicking down random doors and checking for the murder weapon would be more useful at this point than my research,” he says, fed up with himself and this case as he runs a hand through his hair after throwing his pen on his desk with visible frustration.

“Have you tried google?” She suggest teasingly, lowering herself to sit on the edge of his desk. She doesn’t know when they got to this point in which she feels comfortable enough to tease him. It’s friendly thing, and as stated before, she doesn’t do friendly. She decides not to question it so she doesn’t hear an answer she doesn’t want to hear.

(It’s morbid, really, joking while talking about dead people, but when you’re an FBI agent who specializes in serial killer and psychopaths, lines tend to blurr.)

“Ha-ha,” he states dryly, glaring at her and she pushes his arm playfully. A smile finally stretches across his face as he picks his pen back up, and he looks at her with such absolutely unadulterated adoration that her knees get weak.

She looks down, her cheeks heating up as she opens her mouth to speak. Before she has a chance to, the Sheriff knocks on the door and comes in, clearing his throat. He doesn’t have to say anthing for them to know what’s up. She wonders if Stiles got his all-revealing looks from his dad.

“More bad news,” Stiles sighs audibly, running a hand over his face and looking at the Sheriff, for the first time in her life she’s scared for what’s about to come.

“It’s worse than you think,” the Sheriff emphasizes, a stern look on his face. “He’s just made a ten year old girl an orphan.”

Lydia breath hitches in her throat as she closes her eyes as if to compose herself. This has gone too far. She's too unfocused. She's never gone so long without locking up the murderer or at least finding some sort of actual substantial evidence. He hands Stiles a note with an address before she hears the door closing. Her eyes spring open as she feel his hand grabbing onto hers, squeezing tightly.

In that moment, she wants nothing more than to yell at him for doing this, for making this harder. She doesn’t want this, she doesn’t want to like him, she doesn’t want _him._

She lets go of his hand and nods towards the address on the note.

“I’ll drive.”

She wants to solve this case.

.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you guys liked it although im not very good at writing angst so forgive me if its like complete shit and also i would love very much to hear what y'all thought:)
> 
> (if you guys think there's too much scallison pls let me know or deal with it bc they're v cute)


	4. and it hurts like hell to be thrown around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song is torn apart by bastille ft grades  
> thanks for all the comments and kudos i really appreciate it!:)

.

_chapter four: and it hurts like hell t_ _o be thrown around_

“Stiles,” Scott looks at him apologetically as he enters the cafeteria, glancing over to a table in the back before he looks back at his friend. Stiles turns around to follow his gaze and he swears his heart stops beating in his chest as he sees Lydia and Aiden (that fricktard with a sixpack who can’t even tie his own shoes, let alone solve a murder) sitting at a table together. She’s laughing and so is he and they’re sitting in kissing distance.

He slugs in his seat next to Scott after sitting down, stabbing his fork into his fries. As Scott elaborates, “Apparently he's been hitting on her since she came here and looks like she finally caved in.”

“It’s fine, it’s not like me and Lydia were together or anything,” Stiles looks over his shoulder one last time and she looks happy, right? She does. That’s all that really matters, even if it hurts like a bitch.

“Stiles, I know how much you liked her and I know you weren’t actually together, but I do know you hoped you would be,” Scott tells him, patting his shoulder and Stiles knows there’s no point in lying to Scott. Scott always knows everything just by looking at him.

“I also know that chance was as small as the chance of me and Isaac ever getting along, so it isn’t a surprise, believe me.”

Scott huffs, chuckling lowly as he shakes his head, picking up his carton of milk to take a sip. “If it makes you feel better, it’s probably just for sex.”

Stiles looks up from his plate of fries and sends him an incredulous look, shaking his head slightly in a disbelieving matter. “Why the hell would you say something like that, Scott?”

Scott laughs loudly as he manages out an apology before adding it’s probably true, anyway and Stiles just shakes his head.

Really, there are worse things in the world than your crush starting a relationship with someone who isn’t, well, you. So he won’t let this feel like it is the worst thing in the world. People are dying for God's sake. He’s fine. She made it clear from the start their kiss was a mistake, and even though her boob and his hand had a glorious 45 second long love affair, she also made it clear it would never happen again.

Lydia’s laugh falters as she watches Stiles talk with Scott, Scott squeezing his shoulder. She knows this is the only way to keep her heart guarded and to send him a message. A crystal clear message, that although probably feeling like a suckerpunch in the face, still gets it across anyway. She doesn’t want him. She wants someone like Aiden. Not too smart, no strings attached, purely for sex Aiden.

And she got him.

.

“What were you doing in my dad’s office?” Stiles asks, peaking inside to check his father’s mood before turning back to his friend. Rolling his eyes, he adds, “What? Don’t tell me that besides you being the number one candidate for his position when he retires, he now also wants to adopt you and shun me to a buddhist community in the Mid-East?”

Scott snorts, “Don’t be stupid. I just needed to inform him of something.”

“Did you request a new rookie? Is my dad letting you get a new rookie? Because if so, I want a new one, too. I think mine is broken. I mean, the other day, Tate actually told a woman to suck it up during a death notification.”

(What? Even if they only had to deal with a rookie one day out of the week, didn't mean he wanted a dysfunctional, deaf and impulsive adolescent following him around for ten hours instead of going to her bi-weekly anger management class. She was like an animal!)

“No,” he states, his eyes forming a twinkle in the light as he smiles widely, “Me and Allison aren’t allowed to be partners anymore.”

“Gee, and you’re happy about that? I knew it was bad between the two of you but I didn’t think you two were going to go all Splitsville. Do you want me to toilet paper her house? I’ll do it, you know,” Stiles sends him a serious look and Scott sometimes furiously questions how his best friend got through police academy at all.

“No, me and Allison aren’t allowed to be partners anymore because it goes against _policy_ ,” Scott smirks and Stiles finally catches on.

“Damn son! Why didn’t you just say so! I can’t believe you and Allison… I mean _you_ and Allison. Scott and Allison. Wow. Allison and you—”

“I get it.”

“I’m so happy for you, bro,” Stiles finally offers, opening his arms for a congratulatory hug. He deserved it. (What’s with this world in which his best friend gets with practically-his-sister and he can’t even pick up a coldhearted cute FBI agent? Okay, that was bitter. He won’t be bitter.)

“Yeah, best part is, John said we could continue working together because we’re running low on staff,” Scott beams, for the first time in forever, happy about budget cuts in law enforcement and the ever existing efflux of people in his hometown.

Stiles tilts his head, frowning, “He’d rather pair you up with your _significant other_ than with your best friend and his only son who also happens to be the only one without a partner in this entire sheriff's department?”

Scott can practically see the question marks form in his friend’s eyes (which basically means he’s spinning up the weirdest paranoid conspiracy theories, one has ever thought of) and claps him on the shoulder quickly before announcing he’s going over to the shooting range.

“It’s because you love me more than her, isn’t it? It totally is, right, Scott? Scott!”

.

“Isn’t there a way we can provoke this son of a gun with some sort of bait?” Scott offers, perched on top of a chair, all of them spread around the Sheriff's office.

Stiles had decided maybe a fresh pair of ears could help him out. When you’re right on top of all the facts, you sometimes get tunnel vision and miss something important. Apparently they were all just here for the free coffee and donuts, because even after an hour and a half they weren’t getting anywhere.

“Yeah, because we’re going to put another innocent civilian in danger,” Stiles remarks sarcastically, rolling his eyes from his leaning position against his desk.

“I think Scott is right,” Isaac states, formerly sprawled back on his desk chair, feet up on his desk and now sitting up.

“Of course you think he is right, if you hadn’t been pining over Reyes for two years before she got transferred I would think you wanted the Scott D,” Stiles responds without skipping a beat, eyes narrowed.

Isaac punches him in the shoulder, a blush creeping down his neck. “Shut up, Stilinski. You’re one to talk when you’ve been crying over Martin since she arrived here and pecked your lips. _Once_. Four months ago.”

“At least I don’t try to hide it,” he snaps back, and he knows he’s probably projecting his anger about this case onto Isaac, but see if he cares. Spoiler alert: He doesn’t.

Scott puts a hand on Isaac chest, interrupting them, “Point here is, six months ago these murders were coming a month apart. Now? A week, if we’re lucky. Soon enough they’ll be a day apart, or he’ll kill three an hour. We need to do something.”

Well, that escalated quickly, McCall.

“We could try and set out a curfew for everyone. At least that’ll keep everyone remotely safe for a considerate amount of time,” Kira pipes in, tightening her ponytail. “It will at least force him to change his game plan,” she adds. Sometimes the forensic pathologist spoke, and if she did, it was always useful.

Right now though, Stiles is more concerned with upholding his reputation than saving the city from danger. He clears his throat, quietly adding, “And for your information, it was with tongue and there was some heavy petting going on.”

“For your information,” Allison cuts in, putting a hand on his shoulder, squeezing tight and lowering her voice, “Girls don’t really dig it when you refer to them as some kind of dog you can pet.”

“Super helpful, thanks,” Stiles fakes a smile and Allison shakes her head at him.

“St..” Lydia’s voice drifts off as she walks into their makeshift evidence room to find half the station there. “...iles. What is going on here?”

Everybody stares at her as she eyes them warily. She feels like she just walked into a party she wasn’t invited to. Which she thinks is kind of the case here.

“We’re just brainstorming about the case,” he remarks idly, feeling everyone's eyes burning into his face but refusing to look at anyone but Lydia.

“Without me?” She shoots back, her fists balling as she looks around, demanding an explanation with her cold glare.

“You seemed occupied,” he remarks lightly, and he knows he’s being a jerk, she’s not his property and he doesn’t have a right to be jealous, but he is and he can’t help his brain from turning into jello whenever he’s around her.

“Can we have the room for a minute?” She asks, sternly, not taking her eyes of Stiles and everyone scrambles to their feet quickly.

“What the hell is going on, Stiles? You’re excluding me from _our_ investigation?” She crosses her arms, taking a step closer to him and he takes a step back.

“Like I said, you were busy.”

She huffs, staring him down and when he doesn’t speak she runs a hand through her long hair, gritting her teeth together, “You mean I was with Aiden? Gee, if I didn’t know any better I’d think you were jealous.”

He just stares at her, idle arms hanging limp against his body and she pushes his chest. “When are you going to stop obsessing about that one time we made out, huh? I. Don’t. Want. To. Be. With. You.”

If he wasn’t getting the message when she said it carefully, if he wasn’t getting the message when she started dating someone else, then fine, she’ll spell it out for him.

He inhales sharply and his eyes darken, “You made that crystal clear, believe me.”

Her tough act falters a little as she watches him. He’s never looked at her like this. So angry and full of hate, he only ever looked at her like she’d hung the moon and now... Now she felt numb. “Then why do you care so much if I’m with Aiden?”

“I don’t. You want to date Aiden, fine, I don’t care. You brought him up. I just want to solve this case before more people get hurt.”

He walks out on her, can you believe that? He walks out on her and she’s left talking to an empty room.

“Fine.”

That night she receives a text from him that makes her heart stop in her chest. It’s three a.m. and she just got home from Aiden’s apartment, not yet having reached the latter part of being friends with benefits in which sleeping over and having breakfast was something she desired.

She’d ignored it at first, not feeling like reading another accusation or insult, but figuring it could be work related, she opened it.

_Just know I think you deserve better._

Her heart one second away from breaking into a million little pieces, she deletes it.

It’s for the best.

.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in the words of the great taylor swift #thristy: please comment it means a lot;)


	5. there's a million reasons why i should give you up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi y'all thanks for the comments and kudos they mean A LOT and always make me smile  
> again if you think anyone is ooc or the plot could use some improvement, let me know:)
> 
> song is by queen gomez

.

_chapter five: there's a million reasons why I should give you up_

 

He’s _not_ being petty for asking Malia out on a date. He knows he said she was basically an animal and all, but she’s pretty and she seems to like him and she’s honestly not that bad.

Which makes him an even worse person. Jesus.

He takes her out to a restaurant and she eats more than him which is a definite surprise, but he likes it. She often doesn’t get his sarcastic comments and she’s brutally honest and she watched Star Wars. Which is a such a plus, you don’t even know (she did say she didn’t get any of it and it sucked, but still—she’s seen it, which is more than he can say of Scott, that barbarian). At the end of the night, when she kisses him just as he’s rambling about his car or something, because Malia doesn’t do subtle, he realizes he actually likes her. 

As a person and not just someone he's with to get back at Lydia, to settle the score, or make her jealous.

What the hell is wrong with him?

.

“How many more minutes till we have to call in again?”

They’re patrolling one of the buildings their for the time being only suspect owns (someone Stiles and Lydia had coincidentally stumbled on, a person connected to all the people who’ve been brutally murdered. Randomly stumbling onto suspects. Top notch detective work!), hoping to catch him doing anything illegal really so they can get a warrant to search the place and hopefully stumble onto some hardcore evidence. Unfortunately, this particular building they got assigned was seriously abandoned and so far, crime free.

“Well,” Allison comments cynically, looking at her watch in an almost bored manner, “According to procedure we have to call in every thirty minutes, and since now two whole minutes have passed since you last asked me—just twenty six more.”

“I’m sorry, okay? I’ve just been under a lot of stress with the Sheriff announcing this is the deputy’s last official case and all and I’m like runner up and it’s kind of—paralyzing.”

“Do you want to play twenty questions to take your mind off of it?”

“We could miss something important.” He tightens his grip on the wheel, his knuckles turning white, before parking the car quietly and leaning back in his seat with a sigh.

“No one’s here, McCall,” she rolls her eyes, leaning her head on her knee as she looks out of the window. “Me and Rookie Hale patrolled this entire building for weeks. One day, we saw a stray cat. It was the highlight of our week.”

“Relax,” she says, less serious this time and she intertwines her fingers with his. He looks down at their hands and feels some type of certainty wash over him. Home, he thinks. Instinctively he brings up her hand to kiss it and he feels almost shy for a minute.

“Let’s do something fun,” she suggests. Then she smiles and he knows it can’t mean anything good.

She throws one leg over his and settles in his lap then she loosens his tie, biting down on her bottom lip and maintaining eye contact. The kind of eye contact that, you know, is just really, really hot.

(They taught him about these situations in school. Like terrorism and torture and stuff—but he seriously feels helpless whenever he’s around her.)

“Honestly, we shouldn’t be doing this,” Scott mutters through kisses as he dodges her mouth, making it land on the corner of his mouth. Allison doesn’t seem to mind and continues kissing down his face and onto his neck and he can’t think st—Oh God, she is moving down his chest, he repeats she is moving down his chest. “We c-can’t. Not really. I mean protocol states—”

“Scott,” she breathes as she looks up, her long eyelashes fluttering against her eyelids and he doesn’t, he really doesn’t want her to stop but there’s protocol and there’s rules and they’re around for a reason and _oh_ , they’re supposed to be watching this suspect that might have killed like ten people.

“Mhm,” he manages to stutter out partly manly, managing to keep his ego intact. He looks at her and he loves her, he’s always loved her and he could name a million reasons why.

(Mainly, because he just does, because it comes natural, because he couldn’t imagine a world in which he didn’t love Allison. Partly, because she was the kind of girl to straddle him in a police car in the middle of their shift during an important job and making him hate himself for not being able to stop.)

“Don’t you ever just want to..” She slowly unbuttons one of his buttons, and then another, and another placing soft kisses on his chest whenever she does. When she reaches the last button she works her way back up his chest, and then his neck, ending near his ear, she whispers, “Lose control?”

He finds himself nodding without even noticing or remembering thinking about nodding and he’s not sure he even remembers the question right. He just knows the hairs on the back of his neck are standing up because of her voice and well—he’s completely at her mercy.

(He was totally wrong though. Her smile could mean something good, something very, very great. Something super, super awesome. Yep.)

.

"She did _what?_ "

"Yeah."

"In your squad car?"

"Yep."

"What the—"

 "I know."

Scott's smirk fades into a guilty look and Stiles rolls his eyes. 

"Seriously? You don't think this is like the most awesome thing ever?"

"I do but—"

"But what? You were supposed to be patrolling?"  The slightly taller boy shakes his head, resisting the urge to roll his eyes again. Stiles takes advantage of his friend's distractedness and pops " _A Walk To Remember_ " into the dvd player, knowing fully well Scott refuses to watch anything based on a Nicholas Sparks book (read: that makes Stiles cry). Screw you, Scott, that movie is genius. "I'm so incredibly jealous right now, you don't even know."

Scott chuckles lowly, raising his eyebrows somewhat suggestively, "Isn't Malia on your watch tomorrow?"

Stiles tenses up visibly and his friend sends him a look, eyes burning into his back, "You can't hide your relationship forever. I mean, she's a person. A person with very little feelings, but feelings nonetheless." 

"I know," he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face before sitting down next to Scott on the couch. He knows it's been two weeks and he doesn't date that many girls and Malia is kind of, you know, dude-ish, when it comes to dating. She's all about physicality, and he likes that a lot, believe him, he's not a pansy, but it's been two weeks and he realizes they haven't even talked about anything substantial. 

"Is this about Lydia? Are you scared of what she going to think or something?" It's not about her. It's not about her. It's not about her. He figures as long as he keeps saying it, it will start to become true. Because truth is, she is in a lot of parts of his life he doesn't want her to be. Parts she made clear she didn't want to be in and parts that make working with her all that much more difficult. (Like the fact he could get turned on by her chewing a pen. He doesn't know what kind of weird, painful, funky connection his brain makes out of her chewing a pen and his sexual desires, but it's screwed up.)

"No," he grits his teeth together, "It's not about that at all. It's not about _her_. If we go public there's a ton of shit we have to sort through, for example, you know, just from the top of my head," he states sarcastically, continuing, "that I'm her superior and the fact that I kind of abused that relationship by going out with her." 

"Don't string her along, don't be that guy..." He pauses, letting it sink in before adding sneakily, "Are you sure this isn't about her?"

"I am! Geeze. Didn't you hear what I just said? It's about me and the consequences I will have to face when anyone finds out I am involved with her. I won't get fired, but my dad will give me that scary, disappointed look he has that makes me feel like I just ran over a puppy, got a 0.2 GPA and had to join AA."

"I still think it's about Lydia though," Scott crosses his arms and sends him a look, pausing the dvd while the trailers are still rolling. Damn, does he have a sixth sense for Nicholas Sparks or something? 

Stiles is about to open his mouth when Allison jumps over the couch, yelling a firm "BOO!" and falls down into Scott's lap, laughing at their surprised expressions before Scott silences her with a kiss and Stiles grasps for his heart. Man, he was happy for his friends and all, but he didn't know true torture until this very moment.

"That's disgusting," Stiles mutters, peeking through his fingers, face in a grimace. Do they even breathe? "Stop." He yells, throwing a pillow their way, the sentiment which Allison returns wholeheartedly by punching his arm. Hard.

Scrap that. He didn't know true torture _until_ the bruise forming on his arm right now. He's pissed.

(Also, they don't even watch the damn movie! " _But Stiles, Scott has wanted to see Wonder Woman for three months, and that movie is kickass_ and _nerdy enough for you and it's his house_." Being a great girlfriend that makes hella good arguments but an annoying friend? Minus four for you, Allison. So he's even more pissed-er.)

.

Somewhere in between tossing and turning in his bed for three hours, to giving up and catching up with some news episodes of "The Walking Dead" and pouring his coffee onto his plate and putting his eggs into his "I like my force like I like my coffee, BLACK"-cup because he didn't sleep, he decided Scott was probably right. That annoyingly good asshole was always right. 

If he wants to be with Malia, he should be with her and face the consequences, and if he doesn't, he shouldn't be. Okay, that technically isn't all that Scott said, but he's actively ignoring the rest.

What he's not counting on, is Malia's own opinion about their coming out.

He's in the middle of slaving over some paper work in one of the interrogation rooms because he ran his police car into a lamp post that he was able to hide for three weeks until _someone_ ratted him out to his dad—

Isaac. He doesn't have evidence, per se, but he knows it's him.

So he's in the middle of this paperwork, when there's a knock on the door. Probably his _partner_ (since they're not friends and all) although she never really knocks. He's about to tell them to come in when someone holds up a bag of McDonald's take out, tears forming in eyes as he thinks of the french fries in that bag that could be his in a few moments. It's Malia, and he can't say he's not a little disappointed, but the smile on his face won't give that away and he reminds himself once again that he is a bad person. Karma is going to get him soon.

"I got you something," she wiggles the bag up and down and he leans in to kiss her as a thank you. He's about to pull away to to fulfill the constant craving that is french fries, but she stops him, pulling him closer. She is surprisingly strong for a rookie, like, as in, he doesn't remember teaching her this particular choke-hold, but she's a good kisser and he likes her and kissing _and_ she brought him french fries. That makes him feel like a dirty hooker, but really, as long as he gets his fries...

He pushes her against the desk as she puts the bag down, hands on his shoulders before pulling his button shirt out of his pants to splay them over the skin of his back instead. As he starts kissing down her neck, she tells him, "I don't think we should tell anyone about this."

"W-What?" He pauses his quest down her neck to look at her, wiping a lose strand from her face and she rolls her eyes.

"I don't think we should tell anyone about this," she repeats, deadpanning as she shoots him an incredulous look.

"Why?" Short, straight to the point questions, he reminds himself.

"I get my certification in a month. I think we can wait another month." She starts kissing him again and he shrugs, because it's her idea, not his, and he makes a mental note to tell Scott this later. Plus, she is right. She does get her certification in a month, if he can learn her to be polite for five seconds and to not aim guns at children or old people. She should be fine. Why cause trouble?

He's long forgotten about the question at hand because her hands are trailing down his stomach, towards his belt and can anyone really blame him for not noticing anyone entered the room until they cleared their throat? He read a study about this once. Yes, science totally supports his claim that he shouldn't be blamed. 

"Agent Martin," Malia sighs, annoyed as Stiles stiffens, his back towards the person in question. Why did it have to be her? He feels like he's in a fricking romcom. He finally turns around, wiping his lips before inspecting his watch with a lot of interest.

"Officers," Lydia retorts, eyebrows raised as she stares Stiles down while he vividly tries to avoid eye contact.

"Mali-Uhm," shit, he's in so much panic he can't even remember her last name right now, or his? What's his name? What's Malia's? Oh shit. "I mean," stalling, stalling, stalling, "Officer Tate, YES, Tate, um," he clears his throat, that was so close, "can you give us a second?"

She tilts her head in a 'whatever' kind of way, straightening her uniform before leaving the room as he quickly tucks his shirt back into his pants. Great.

"Officer Lahey told me I would be able to find you here."

Isaac. Fuck.

"He didn't tell me you'd be in this much of a compromising position, but—"

"What's that supposed to mean?" She doesn't get to do this. Not now, not ever. Not after she got mad at him for being jealous.

She sounds casual as she adds and explanation, "She's a rookie, right? And you're her training officer?"

He huffs, fixing his tie as he bites back, "She's done in two weeks."

She bites down on her lip, pressing the files in her hands tighter to her chest, "Just.. looking out for you."

"Why? We're not friends, remember?"

He thinks he sees hurt in her eyes for a second there, but it's quickly masked by indifference. She ignores his question as she coldly adds,  "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone."

He tells everyone the next day, because he won't let her have that much power over him and he's kind of impulsive like that sometimes when he's enraged, and the look on her face as he passes her in the parking lot, his arm around Malia makes him feel dead inside. That look has nothing on his dad's.

.

“So, Lydia and Parrish, huh?” Isaac snickers as he takes off his shirt and throws it into his locker. Stiles eyes him warningly.

“Yep, apparently Aiden wasn’t enough to satisfy her needs.” He sounds bitter, even he can tell.

“Dude, you’re so jealous.”

He tenses, narrowing his eyes. “I’m not. I have Malia.” Who actually talks about you a lot to be honest, but I’m not going to mention that in the midst of a cross examination I didn't sign up for.

“You so are.”

“I’m so not.”

“I can practically smell it on you.”

“Your face can practically smell it on you.”

Isaac sends him a weird look, “That didn’t even make sense.”

“Your face doesn’t even make sense,” Stiles smirks proudly, slamming his locker closed. “Ha. Nailed it.”

.

“You ordered a second autopsy on the first two victims?” Lydia yells as she enters the Sheriff’s office, slamming down a file that’s probably important and totally empowers and supports her yelling right now. “Behind my back?”

“Kira, Dr. Yukimura, examined them under pressure to get results, fast. She might’ve missed something important."

She unballs her fists, swallowing hard. He’s kind of right.

“Good call,” she forces out quietly, ready to bury the hatchet. He obviously moved on with Malia (and no, she doesn’t dig her nails into her thighs out of jealousy whenever someone mentions her and she doesn't keep calling her sweetheart at every occasion she gets) and they really shouldn’t let their personal life affect their work any longer.

“Look,” she sighs, “I’ve never had partner, mostly because I work better alone but, I have to admit you’re smart, and you’re good at what you do and we make a good team. So let’s, just, do that, okay? Let’s work together and forget about everything that happened and solve this case.”

He doesn’t want to forget, but he can’t be mad at her either.

“Fine,” he manages to get out, “I’m sorry, too—”

She opens her mouth to protest, because she never said she was sorry but he sends her a look that makes her close it instantly.

“I haven’t worked with a partner for a while either so I guess we both have to adjust to make this work,” he finishes and she nods curtly, hoping to finally leave this all behind.

Curiosity gets the best of her as she raises an eyebrow, “Is there a reason you don’t have a permanent partner?”

And that’s it, that’s all it takes for him to drop his guard and she knows all of her hard work might be lost now they’re treading into dangerous territory like this. Personal stories. Not good.

Still, she doesn’t interrupt him.

“Well, my first partner was Scott but then we made a bet during duty that I could swing my gun around on my finger like they do in the movies, right? Like one of those old western ones. So I tried and well, long story short, I couldn’t and in the process accidentally shot Scott in the ass. And when we headed back to the car it turned out he forgot to lock it and some jackass stole it.”

“This just keeps getting better and better,” she says cynically, almost sorry she asked. (But not really, because the story is very Stiles and she loves it, secretly.)

“So, we’re in the middle of nowhere, with no cellphone reception and Scott is bleeding from his ass and imagine dying from an assbleed, right? That would _totally_ suck,” he laughs a little, and naturally so does she, and his heart flutters and no, he can’t believe they’re in this position again, “So, naturally, I illegally borrowed a car from an abandoned gas station and drove him to the hospital. It was either both of us getting suspended or splitting us up.”

“Do you even breathe?” She laughs a tiny bit, shaking her head a little and he grins, causing her stomach to feel like she's in a rollercoaster.

“Barely. Anyway, my dad chose the latter and since then I’ve only been getting rookies. One day of the week of course, like everybody else, sometimes I drive with my dad and the other days I’m not allowed to act unless I'm called in for backup which kind of feels like I’m a mall cop,” he grimaces and the corners of her lips turns up despite herself, “Long story short, unlike popular beliefs, I’m actually really good at teaching people and they’re usually all very careful and on top of the rules.”

“It’s hard being the sheriff’s son, huh?” She says, looking down at her coffee before looking back at him. She knows his dad is the sheriff, everybody knows, but she never actually considered how he might feel about that. People can be judgy little cruel bitches.

He shrugs, picks at a loose thread of fabric on his uniform, “Yeah, sometimes it sucks, people judging you and all, but mostly I’m okay with it. I get to spend a lot more time with him then I did before, so that’s cool.”

She looks out the window, hoping no one catches this kind of intimate moment, but everyone seems too busy with their own work. It’s just Stiles and Lydia in here.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think you’re a good cop. Despite your dad also being one, despite you being a little clumsy, despite you talking so fast that I’m sure every time you open your mouth you might pass out from a lack of oxygen." Her smile widens, "You’re a good cop.”

She looks back at him and offers him a tiny smile. They exchange one of those looks again, one she desperately wanted to avoid and she feels her heart beat in her throat as he studies her.

Thankfully, he huffs, a playful tone to his voice, “That was really hard for you to admit, wasn’t it?”

She smiles, genuinely, “ _Extremely_.”

Ah, shit. They're screwed.

.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a comment earns you an honorable mention in my diary(L)(L)(L)(L)(L)(L)
> 
> i was very nervous about posting this chapter because im not sure about the last few parts but thats what i have you guys for, to tell me if they sucked or not
> 
> also im very proud of the next chapter so i cant wait for you guys to read it........................................  
> ahhhh


	6. i thought i saw a sign somewhere between the lines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aweee shit here i am again:)  
> thank you for the very sweet comments and i wont write an entire essay here since your probably came here to read so............enjoy:)
> 
> song is by mariana's trench with the version ft kate voegele, or at least i listened to that version its so stydia someone kill me

.

_chapter six: i thought i saw a sign somewhere between the lines_

 

The next time she sees him, it’s in a hospital, covered in blood.

She rushes over to him, putting a hand on his shoulder, “Stiles, what happened? I heard someone got shot chasing our serial killer?”

“He’s,” he heaves, staring down at the dried blood on his hands, as he starts gasping for air. “I-I can’t, he’s—he’s. All,” he shakes his head, gasping and gasping, his face turning slightly red, “He’s all, I-I h-have left.”

His dad. She freezes on the spot. His dad was shot.  

“You need to breathe,” she tells him, squeezing his forearm as if only it were that simple. “Shh, shhh. Stiles, look at me.”

He doesn’t and she follows him into an empty hallway, where he leans against a wall to catch his breath, his hands in his hair. He’s having a panic attack.

“Stiles, breathe,” she tells him, both hand on his shoulders as she roams her brain for a solution. She puts her hands on his cheeks, cupping his face as she forces him to look at her. “Breathe, damnit.”

Before she can think about it anymore, she leans up and connects their lips. It doesn’t last long, she’s not confessing her love or leading him on, she’s helping him breathe for god’s sake.

He looks at her, chest still heaving from the lack of oxygen influx for the past few minutes and she looks back at him, hands drooping of his face and onto his shoulders.

His eyes are filled with wonder, pupils dilated and she explains, “I read somewhere that, uhm, holding your breath can stop a panic attack.” Her voice now softer, painfully aware of her thumbs resting on the skin of his neck and his hands resting on her waist, “When I, when I kissed you you held your breath.”

“I did?” He questions and she lets out a small, breathy laugh, resting her head against his shoulder. It’s hard to admit he scared her, even harder to admit she was scared about losing him to begin with.

“You did.”

He swallows, not blinking, scared that if he does she’ll be gone, “That was really smart.”

She opens her mouth, his hands burning right through the flimsy material of her emerald dress and her skin feels on fire, but nothing comes out.

Luckily, a nurse nearby clears her throat, “Sir, he’s awake.”

They rush into his room, Lydia offering a small, “Hi Sheriff,” as his son embraces him tightly. He acknowledges her with a nod, not even at all questioning her presence here. His father winces slightly as Stiles pulls away and apologizes.

“It’s okay, just glad to still be able to feel,” John offers and Stiles smiles brightly, his eyes tearing up.

“Listen, the reason I got shot—”

“Dad, it’s fine. We’ll catch him.”

“No, I don’t think you understand what I’m trying to say,” John coughs a little, grimacing as tries to sit up. Stiles rushes to his aid, helping him up and her heart warms. “I didn’t stumble upon the serial killer you guys have been trying to unmask for months out of dumb, pure luck.”

“No,” Lydia lets out a weary sigh and Stiles looks from his father to her and back. Her grip on the bed tightens, “He was after you.”

“Protectors,” Stiles breathes, running a hand over his face, and Lydia nods, placing a hand on his back to comfort him, anything to not have to kiss him again, right? “He’s just trying to taunt us now.”

John smiles weakly, “Luckily, I didn’t go down without a fight.”

.

The one good thing to come out of his dad being shot is that he was able to identify a possible suspect, a man named Matt Daehler.

"Okay, I'll be bad cop and you'll be good cop," Scott informs them, straightening his uniform as they watch the man twiddle his thumbs from behind the one-way glass.

"Scott, are you sure thats a good idea?"

"Uhm, yeah,” Scott gives him an incredulous look, “Let’s roll!"

He exchanges a look with Allison, who just shrugs, her arms crossed. Stiles motions towards the door with a sigh and they both leave to question the suspect. The man who might’ve shot his father or knows the person who did. Hence why he can’t be in there himself. He himself would not do well in prison.

He opens the door to see what the hell is taking Lydia so long but she’s nowhere to be seen. He hasn't seen or heard from her since the... _incident_ that occurred in which their lips met and he literally couldn't breathe or think straight. Sighing, he closes the door behind him and watches Scott circle the table like a vulture. He guesses it’s supposed to look intimidating, but instead he looks more like a puppy chasing his own tail.

“Is he alright?” Mr. Daehler gives Allison a weird look, and she doesn’t respond, just smiles sweetly.

"So, Mr. Daehler. If that’s your real name, of course, we have a witness placing you at the scene of a shooting,” Scott narrows his eyes at the man, slapping down on the table before wincing and waving said hand around to ease his pain.

“I’d say that witness is lying,” Matt smirks, leaning back on his chair and crossing his arms. Behind the glass, Stiles balls his fists into his sides. That asshole. He obviously knows something.

“You little punk,” Scott spits, leaning forward, his hands flat on the table before reaching out and flicking him on the shoulder. Stiles facepalms, letting out a loud oh my god before throwing his head back.

Suddenly, he panics, lowering his voice, "I'm so sorry, did I hurt you?"

Matt laughs loudly and Allison sees this as her sign to intervene and moves things along.

She kicks his chair away from the table, grabbing him by his shirt, as she slowly brings her face towards his. Her voice is distant and cold as she promises, “Now you listen up and you listen good. This is your last chance to come clean until I’m going to make you bleed from places you didn’t know you could bleed from and make your life so hard that in 48 hours you’ll be confessing to crimes you didn’t even commit, just to get away from me. Every single time you turn around, every time you so much as blink, every time you think you’re safe—I’ll be there.”

“Look, lady, all I know is where she bought the gun!”

Allison stares him down for a few moments more, until he’s practically shaking before she lets him go and gives him a bright smile, fixing his shirt before neatly shoving his chair back towards the table. “That’ll do. For now.”

She hands him a piece of paper and a pen before she returns to stand next to Scott, who’s looking at her in awe. He inches a little closer, making sure the suspect can’t hear, as he lowly admits, "I'm a little turned on right now."

Allison smiles proudly before turning towards the window and giving Stiles the thumbs up. The man on the other side of the glass just sighs, shaking his head to himself, but for the first time in a long time he has hope in solving this case.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not a very long chapter buuuuuut i was really excited about the progress stiles and lydia made here even though we all know they gon pretend like nothing happened for the upcoming ten seasons, i mean chapters:)
> 
> no just kidding i would never compare myself to jeff davis i respect myself too much
> 
> thanks for reading and leave a comment if you can:)


	7. got you shackled in my embrace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for the comments:)  
> song is latch by sam smith bc first i wanted to go with not in that way but then i remembered i dont hate myself THAT much

_._

_chapter seven: got you shackled in my embrace_

 

“Hi,” he breathes as he hands her steaming hot cup of coffee, nervously fiddling with his hands after. If she wasn’t going to come see or talk to him, he was going to stalk her until she would at least look at him. He's chill— _totally_ chill. “It’s from the cafeteria so it’s low on taste and extremely high on dish water.”

She smiles thankfully as she puts the beverage to her lips and he takes in a shaky breath, remembering how they felt on his. He hadn’t allowed himself to think about it much, busying himself with the case and how to solve it. He's pretty sure that in his head the kiss was like a thousand million trillion times more chilling slash passionate slash romantic than it actually had been.

She lets out a sigh of appreciation as she takes a sip, “It’s disgusting but at least it contains caffeine. I was seconds away from falling asleep.”

He laughs loudly and she looks down at the files in front of her, putting her cup down and scanning through the material.

It’s late and they’re the only ones left at the office, combing their way through all of the females who’ve bought a gun at the particular store over the course of the last twelve months, the one Daehler mentioned, trying to connect one of them to all of the victims. Easier said than done, really. NCIS makes it look so easy.

“Yeah, something about the multiple diseases I could probably catch from it that just _does_ it for me.”

The corners of her lips turn up but she doesn’t look up from the files, and he studies her. He thinks he might actually love her.

She hears him swallow before she hears his voice and she freezes.

“Lydia,” he starts and she knows where this is going by the tone of his voice. He sounds strained, hurt. _Well, so is she, Stiles, she’s hurt too, can’t you drop it for once in your damn life?_

“It’s getting late, I should go,” she almost snaps, flinging her bag over her shoulder as she rushes out of the office. Leaving him, of course, to chase her.

“You kissed me,” he accuses her and she stops walking—running away from him—and turns around on her heels.

Her voice is cold, distant, full of accusation and loathe, “Well, I’m so sorry for trying to save you from a collapsed lung, sweetheart. Next time I’ll just—I don’t know, look the other way!”

“No, stop making up excuses. You could’ve pinched my nose closed, hell, you could’ve—could’ve knocked me out. We were in a hospital! Call out for a doctor, for god’s sake. But you—you kissed me.” Does he sound like a crazy person? He sounds like a crazy person.

The words roll out of his mouth like an accusation and her stomach twists and turns as she remembers the look on his face when she told him they would never be together.

“Stiles,” she states, tiredly, running a hand through her strawberry blonde hair as she bites down on the inside of her cheek so hard, she tastes blood. She’s speechless for once, and not by choice and he likes her. Yes, he does. He frickin’ likes her. He’s halfway between liking and loving. He’s in like. Serious like. Like, he's pretty sure it's love but that would be creepy in a way because they've never dated and she pretty much hates him.

And he knows, he just knows she likes him, too. They have a connection. They do. This is not just in his head. It’s _real_.

“Can’t we just continue this discussion tomorrow, or preferably, never?” She bites back, something dark washing over her eyes and he doesn’t skip a beat.

“Why? Because you’re afraid that you’ll finally admit that you chose to kiss me because maybe, somewhere deep down under that cold, lifeless exterior—you care about me?”

She pauses, licks her dry lips, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m with Parrish.” As if that’s an excuse.

“No,” he states, his eyes dark, and something about his voice, so cold and emotionless, makes her heart drop down in her stomach. “I guess I don’t either. I’ll see you tomorrow, Agent Martin.”

“Yeah,” she whispers to herself, staring at his retreating form, “See you tomorrow, Detective Stilinski.”

She finally did it, she finally got him to back off.

But at what cost?

.

She wakes up in a dark warehouse, her head pounding and her hands tied together. She blinks a few times, trying to get used to the unfamiliar circumstances and trying to figure out where the hell she is. She feels some sort of liquid dripping down the side of her face and when she looks down at her once off-white dress, she realizes it’s blood.

What the…?

Suddenly she hears a groan coming from beside her and she freezes, pulling on the rope that’s tying her hands together and getting it to loosen, putting her training to good use, so she can slip out of it. At least now it’s a fair fight.

She hisses as she touches the side of her head and faintly remembers a dark parking lot, the sound of footsteps and a sharp pain before everything went black and she ended up here. Wherever _here_ was.

“Hello?” She calls out, hoping her voice sounds strong and fearless, opposed to how she’s feeling.

“Lydia?” It’s Allison. Her only friend.

“Alli? Where are you? Talk to me!” She calls out, crawling over the floor as she hears another groan coming from her left. Reaching out, her hand lands on someone’s chest and when she leans closer she’s realizes it’s Stiles. “Stiles?”

“Lydia, Isaac, he’s not, he’s not breathing I think and Scott won’t wake-up,” Allison’s voice is shaky and Lydia knows she needs to step up and be a leader. “It’s going to be fine, Alli. I’ll be right there.” Lowering her voice and shaking Stiles roughly, she says, “Wake-up, damnit.”

He suddenly gasps for air, his eyes wide. “Lydia? _What the hell_?”

“I think we’ve been taken by our favorite serial killer,” she spits out, voice cynical even though it’s not the right time, as she jerks on the rope around his wrists angrily until it comes loose. “We need to get to Allison.”

She doesn’t realize her hands are trembling until he takes them in his. “It’s going to be okay,” he tells her with such certainty, she believes it. Letting out a shaky breath, she nods before pulling on his hand to follow the sound of Allison’s voice.

“Scott’s awake,” Allison’s shaky voice droops with tame happiness before she adds, “Isaac’s pulse is low but I think he’s okay.”

It’s then that one bright light springs on, and blinds them all. A gunshot rings out, and then another one and another one and then another one and they keep coming until they don’t.

After a  while, she doesn't know how long it's been since the gun shots kept ringing, she opens her eyes to the bright light, taking her hands of her ears. She's breathing heavily, feelingg around her body, she isn’t hurt but _Stiles_ —Stiles is.

There’s blood everywhere and she sinks down onto her knees to press her hand against his chest. She swears her own heart stops the seconds she feels his beat erratically against her hand.

“Stiles, you can’t die! You can’t die, okay? Stiles, please, I'm going out of my mind right now, you can't,” she begs and begs, covered in blood with tears streaming down her face, clouding her vision but she doesn’t care. “I—I love you, okay? I love you. I do. Please. There. I finally said it. You can’t leave me now.”

She finally says what he wanted to hear so badly and he isn’t listening.

She doesn't know how many times she's uttered the word 'please', but there's a moment when something clicks in her head and she knows she has to be strong. She has to be. She’s shaking as she looks over at Scott, who’s holding Allison and rocking her back and forth. Her body is limp and pale and Lydia can see blood on the corner of her mouth from all the way across the room.

 _She can’t be dead, she can’t be dead, she can’t be dead._ She feels like throwing up, maybe she already did.

She presses down onto his wound harder, she can’t let him bleed out. She won't let him.

She looks over at Isaac. Headwound. Dead. No, no, no.

“Scott,” she calls out weakly, before realizing he won’t be able to hear her. “Scott,” she calls out louder, and then louder, more persistent, even though her voice is breaking, “Scott, you need to call for backup.”

“I,” he stammers, looking down at his Allison. His Allison. “I can’t. I—I can’t move.”

His eyes look wild, unfocused and she has to squeeze her eyes together for a moment before she's able to force her next words out.

“Allison is dead, Scott. Isaac is dead. And Stiles? Stiles is going to be dead if you don’t call for backup. Scott, I need you to man up and find a phone before he or she or whatever else sick _asshole_ did this, comes for us and we’re all dead.”

He nods, after a few moments, leaning down to kiss Allison’s forehead before he lays her down gently, wiping some stray tears of his cheeks with the back of his hand and crawling around the now again darkly lit room to find a phone. He hovers over Isaac, letting out a small sob as he closes Isaac’s blue eyes before grabbing the phone from his pocket.

“Hello? This is Officer McCall. I’m at some abandoned warehouse, can you track my location? There’s an officer down, I repeat there’s multiple officers down. Request for immediate backup. We’re here with the serial killer.”

He pants heavily, leaning back and slumping against the wall. It's now she realizes he's been shot, too.

“Scott, good job. That was a great job,” she says, pressing her hands tighter to Stiles’ chest, her voice shaking as a weak smile forms on her lips, hoping it's gives him just enough strength to hold on. “You did great.”

“I should’ve protected her,” Scott breathes and she can barely make out what he’s saying. He’s mumbling as if he’s tired, and when you’re shot and then proceed to be tired that can’t be a good thing. She knows it isn't.

“Scott?” She licks her dry lips, and looks at her red, bloody hands and then Stiles’ face and then to Scott. Please, dear God or universe or whatever the hell is out here—this can’t be happening. “Scott, please, you can’t die on me, too. I can’t,” she pauses, she can’t breathe. Her chest hurts, her head hurts, her heart hurts, everything hurts.

She can’t do anything. She can’t leave Stiles because he’d bleed out before she could even properly get to Scott and if she doesn’t get to Scott—this can't be happening.

_This isn't happening. This isn't happening. This isn't happening._

.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im excited to hear what you guys think!!!!!!!!!!!!!! help


	8. how your love can do what no one else can

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omfg teen wolf just started filming again like a day ago or something so im super HYPED!!!!!!!  
> also im hyped af bc of your comments and kuddos, they're all so nice and encouraging thanks
> 
> the song is crazy in love by beyonce but the slow version for ‘that porno that is coming to theatres everywhere soon but at least has jamie dornan in it’

.

_chapter eight: how your love can do what no one else can_

 

This can't be happening, this can't be happening, _this can't be happening_ —

She wakes up with a loud scream, clutching her blanket so tightly her knuckles are turning white. She can’t breathe, and she feels around, tries to see around. Where is she? What happened?

It was a dream. Everything had been a dream—a nightmare. Thank God it had been a nightmare. Just a nightmare. No one died, everyone was alive, just a nightmare.

Just to be sure, she calls Allison. Scott picks up instead, with a groggy (yet somehow excited because only Scott would expect good news in the middle of the night) hello and she quickly hangs up, throwing her phone away from her. She watches it bounce of her wall and onto her floor but can't seem to make herself care. She takes a deep, sharp breath, wiping her hair from her face and resting her hand on her forehead as she stares at her blanket, trying to regain her senses.

Her chest is still heaving up and down, her cheeks salty from the tears as she lets out a shaky breath. She knew that had been a little too dramatic to be real, even for her, vivid romantic movies binge watcher and all, but it felt genuine.

What the actual hell?

.

She's extra jumpy that morning, feeling hungover in the worst way. The kind where you haven't actually drank anything but everything still feels and sounds loud and harsh.

Everyone seems to be staring at her, so she snaps, and then Allison asks her what's up after scowling at her for getting her a blueberry muffin instead of a chocolate chip cookie for breakfast, and then she has to lie and says she's completely fine because seriously, these people care too much, and then she tries to stay calm but some rookie tries to hit on her by asking her which brand of gun she uses (so romantic!) and all she can think about is blood, Stiles' blood, on her hands and she is in the middle of a monologue about _kindergartners asking adults about guns_ when Stiles, frickin' Stiles, asks her if she's fine, putting his hand on her lower back as he leads her into their, his—his dad's office, like the last time they saw each other wasn't to yell about how they don't care about each other _at all_.

"I don't need you to look out for me," she practically barks, immediately after he closes the door, crossing her arms over her chest and he's so touchy, always, and the imprint of his hand is still burning on her back, and it's so, so annoying.

"I agree," her toes are tingling, she feels so warm, "but I do need to look out for Dunbar. I think he was five seconds away from peeing his pants. That can definitely haunt a guy forever."

Damnit. Did he have to make her smile? 

"What's up?" He asks, not wiping that stupid, dumb goofy special little smile off his face and all she can see right now is blood, Stiles covered in blood and her not being able to do anything—blood. Her not able to feel anything else but useless. She has to tell herself, twice, it was a dream. Nothing happened, nothing is going to happen. But she still feels the urge to be around him, all the time. To protect him, to keep him close. It's not her. She's not dependent on other people. She takes care of herself. She doesn't care about other people. At least not in such a way to causes her to be freaking out over a _dream_ she had.

"Nothing. I told you," she manages to bite back without giving away how much she feels, feels her heart size up at least twelve times just at the thought of him caring so much about her. 

"You sure?" He knits his eyebrows together and before he finishes the word 'sure' she's already blurted out a convincing and loud, "Yes."

For a second she thinks he's going to continue interrogating her (perks of developing this really weird partner-i-kissed-once-and-have-kinda-a-lot-of--undefined-feelings-for relationship with a _detective_ ), but then something washes over his face and he seems to let it go, starting a. Probably figures she's moody, or like, on her period. Whatever. 

She doesn't want to feel like this. Like she's on the verge of losing something important.

How does the saying go? If you deny everything, it will go away. Or something. It will, eventually. 'Repressing emotions' is practically her middle name.

It isn't until lunch she finally admits she's a little shaken up. Out loud.

“You dreamt about us dying?” Allison cocks an eyebrow over her strawberry smoothie, her gorgeous curls falling over her shoulders as they walk around the park. “ _All_ of us?”

“Yes, totally creepy, I know,” Lydia says, her voice steady, but her heart not. Nothing in her life had ever felt so real.

Allison half-shrugs, tilting her head, “Did I at least get like a, cute, little tragic goodbye with Scott?”

“Allison,” Lydia warns her, but her eyes give her away. She’s just glad her only friend is alive, her best friend really and just to be sure she isn’t dreaming again she takes her arm and puts her own around Allison’s waist, squeezing tightly.

“What’s that for?” The brunette flashes her dimples and Lydia sighs quietly. “I’m just really glad you’re alive.”

Allison squeezes her hand, giving her one of her motherly looks, "I'm glad you're alive too." She squeezes again before letting go of her hand as they continue to walk to their destination.

They walk in silence for a moment before she can’t contain her curiosity any longer.

“Well?” Allison raises her eyebrows expectantly and Lydia smiles, letting out a small giggle before she pauses for a moment, a blur of words following. “I don’t know, you were pretty much immediately dead, he refused to let you go so I yelled at him because I couldn’t leave Stiles and let him bleed out but Scott was also hurt and that’s when I woke up.”

They’re totally discussing bleeding bodies and death over smoothies. Great.

“You let Scott die out in favor of Stiles?”

“No, and even if I did, it was my subconscious, not me.”

Allison sing teasingly, dragging out his name, “Sounds to me like your subconscious is trying to tell you you can’t live without Stileeeeees.”

“It’s not!”

“Is too!”

“Shut up.”

“You’re in love with Stiles,” Allison states smugly, crossing her arms. "It's psychology 101."

God, did she say best friend? She takes it back. She hates this woman.

“I‘m with Parrish, Freud.” Her voices is confident at first, until she begins to doubt herself. “Kind of. I don’t know. We just have a lot of sex.”

Allison snorts before discarding her smoothie into a trashcan, wiping her hands on her skirt, “And I’ve been with multiple other guys before Scott, even while we were friends.”

“But—” Lydia is about to protest but Allison shushes her. “As a matter of fact, I think you could say you slept with Darth Vader and Stiles wouldn’t care. Scott or hell, his dad? Maybe. Darth Vader? Meh." With a smirk she adds, "Isaac? Hell yeah.”

“I’m leaving soon.”

“Ever thought of staying?”

Allison is a quick thinker, Lydia doesn’t like it. She wasn't used to challenges, _people_ challenging her, until she got here. Until her first night here, in Beacon Hills.

She’s starting to get aggravated (probably at herself for not coming up with better excuses why not), “I’m not the kind of girl who changes her life for a boy.”

“Then stay for me. Or this normal moderately boring job. Or for yourself, because you deserve a home, Lydia, not a suitcase.”

They’re both quiet for a while before Lydia finally stops walking, pulling on Allison’s arm.

“How do I tell him? Do I tell him?”

Allison laughs in her face, like actually flat out laughs in her face, almost doubling over as she grabs at her stomach. “Lydia, Lydia, Lydia..”

“What?” She asks annoyed, pursing her full lips and refusing to look at her.

“I think that boy would settle for you saying the words ‘me likey like you’ if it meant being with you.”

Her heart flutters uncomfortably in her chest, because even though she might be in love with him, it’s not to be assumed he is with her. She made it very clear he should move on. Multiple times.

“Don’t worry,” Allison adds, gripping her shoulder, “Pretty sure Stiles would sacrifice three virgins to be with you, which is a totally tasteless thing to say after some serial killer just murdered a few teenagers. Oh my god.”

Lydia laughs, some of the tension leaving her body. Really, it’s all or nothing.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ..................  
> ?????
> 
> please please please leave a comment, even if it's just 'i like this' or 'awesome' or whatEVER it will make my day!!! #thirsty


	9. there is no fear now, let go and just be free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song is unconditionally by kate hudson i do not own a thing!!!!  
> did you guys hear holland talk about lydia's love life at paleyfest she said the writing was on the wall there there being her love life i AM LITERAL TRASH  
> okay on to my own little pretend fictional universe............  
> hope you like it

_._

_chapter 9: there is no fear now, let go and just be free_

 

The timing is just never right.

First she breaks up with Parrish, and then decides to tell Stiles immediately about her feelings but as soons as she builds up the courage, in storms Malia. Malia ‘I’m not afraid to make-out with my boyfriend in front of the entire sheriff's station and his father’ Tate. So, no, not the right time. (She’s seen that girl throw a punch and she’s not ready to die. Yet.)

Then, when she tries again, when they're in the car after a follow-up with a family member of one of the victims, arms brushing against each other, nothing comes out. She opens her mouth, ready to say the words but instead blurts out something about waffles and Finstock’s and he just— _smiles_ at her.

Later when she thinks she’s physically ready to form the words, already halfway through the sentence, back pressed against his table in the cafeteria, in comes a random rookie; another body is found. How convenient. And what a insensitive bitch she is.

Again, when she tries to tell him, leaning against his desk, after a worried grab at her arm and a careful, sweet and soft ' _what's wrong, Lydia?_ ', having his full undivided attention for once, faces close, his eyebrows knit together in anticipation; Scott rushes in.

“We have a lead. Mahealani is hacking the mainframe as we speak to track her phone. Daehler finally cracked during a follow up.”

Now softer, looking at his best friend with relief in his eyes, he adds, “We’ve got her, Stiles. We’ve got her.”

She watches Scott leave until she’s suddenly lifted off her feet and into his arms, embraced tightly. She relaxes, inhaling his scent as she hugs him back, wrapping her arms around his waist tightly. “Let’s get her,” she whispers against his neck and he nods curtly, pulling her along to Danny’s office.

Mahealani manages to find out where the killer is after about seven minutes (five if it hadn't been for Stiles breathing down his neck like he was afraid Danny was going to run off with their criminal any second now and never return). They gear up in bulletproof vests with extra ammunition and get in one of the police arrest vans, and it isn't until he puts his shaking hand on hers when they're three minutes in that she realizes he's never done this before. This is his first case, a case that took many, even tried to take his dad. She takes his fingers in her hand and squeezes, holding on until Allison signals they've arrived.

When it’s over and done with, when they finally arrest the sick bastard (that goes by the name of Julia Baccari, two priors (stalking and illegal gun possession), someone that came across on their gun search but because she was using the alias Jennifer Blake, hadn’t set of any alarms. Julia was committing the murders, or sacrifices as she likes to call them, to cleanse her soul of the past. Code for Crazy Physco Taking Out Her Revenge On People And Their Descendants Who Supposedly Wronged Her When She Was A Derailed Emo Teen) she decides it’s time to tell him.

They’re back at the office, finishing up some paper work in his dad’s office when she takes a deep breath. _All or nothing_. Right, Lydia?

She wishes it had gone like that, with a speech prepared and a plan set in stone, but it was more a sudden realization she was doing it while she was already halfway through.

“From the look of it she wasn’t going to stop at three people a category. She was ready to kill another ten, if she felt like it,” he shakes his head, browsing through the paperwork and she nods, agreeing as she mutters under her breath, “Crazy bitch.”

He lets out a long breath, stretching his arms above his head before smiling at her. “We really did, we did it, we put her away.”

She tries to return the smile. Its quiet for a moment before she huffs lowly, “Stiles,” she starts and his head snaps up at her tone.

“I know I might be crazy, saying this because of a stupid dream I had about you and me and an empty warehouse in the middle of nowhere, and I know, I know it isn’t fair to do this to you. Especially after I pushed you away so many times,” she takes a deep breath, “but I think I love you." More firmly, she repeats, voice wavering anyway, "I love you.”

“I’m with Malia,” he states, confused and flustered. And why do they keep using other people as excuses? She’s starting to see a pattern here.

“I know,” she breathes, trying to hold in her tears but one manages to slip away anyway. She quickly brushes it away with her wrist. She’s too late. Her stupid mouth moves before she can stop it. “Do you love her?”

She hears him take in a sharp breath, but she can’t look at him, not now, maybe not ever.

Finally, he says, quietly, “Not as much as I love you.”

It’s a line straight from a Nicholas Sparks movie, or one of those cheesy romantic novels you buy at a supermarket, and she is not ashamed to admit it makes her toes curl and her heart skip and her brain fuzzy.

His eyes are dark, pupils dilated, his lips on hers in record time. His mouth moves over hers, one hand in her hair and the other on her neck. Her hands rest on chest, slightly pulling on the fabric of his shirt. Her lips feel like they’re on fire and then, then it’s over.

He rests his forehead against hers, eyes squeezed shut as he pants, chest heaving up and down, mirroring hers. “I want to do this right.”

Malia. He's talking about Malia. She nods, leaning up to kiss the corner of his mouth before kissing his shoulder, resting her head there for a moment. “I know. I think that’s part of the reasons why I love you.”

She pulls away and looks at him, and she feels her chest warm, heart fluttering against it as she reaches out to wipe some lip gloss of his bottom lip.

It’s then she notices the shit eating grin he’s sporting like some kind of idiot. Yet, she smiles, too.

“Say it again.”

“Stiles,” she mutters, cheeks tinted red with embarrassment as she tries to cover her face. None of the other guys she dated were ever this...sensitive? Unapologetically honest? Adorable. Never this adorable. He takes away her hands and squeezes them in his own, voice serious as he kisses the knuckles on one of her hands, “Please, say it again.”

His voice is so earnest, and endearing, sweet even, like he could never believe she would love him and she knows part of the cause is her. But she feels like she’s finally ready to let someone in, to let her guard down and maybe get hurt in the process. Looking at him now, she thinks it might be worth it.

(Looking at him now, she thinks maybe she won’t ruin him, maybe he’ll fix her.)

“I love you.”

He smiles goofily, pressing his lips against her forehead one last time. 

“What kind of dream?”

“Huh?” She’s too distracted memorizing his face from up close to really register anything he’s saying.

“What kind of dream did you have? About me?” She slaps his chest, huffing slightly as she can’t help but grin like she just won a field medal.

“Not _that_ kind of dream, perv.”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the love confession is partly based on something i saw on tumblr but for the life of me couldnt find after i lost it... so thanks for the inspiration whoever made the post about the "not like i love you" part  
> omg theres only one more chapter left after this one....... its mostly purely fluff but hey i love fluff!!!! fluff is awesome  
> i wanted to thank you guys for reading, commenting and kudo-ing this story it means a lot<3  
> okay enough cheesy af stuff, let me know what you think


	10. my heart finally trusts my mind and i know somehow it's right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: hoe don't do it  
> me: this is the last one!!!!  
> me: oh my god
> 
> okay im sorry for being just a literal trashcan when it comes to updating and replying to your comments and this is mainly fluff because its stydia and its a lil' scallison and i really dont give a motherfrick, !
> 
> enjoy hopefully and thanks for everything:)
> 
> song is by christina perri and ed sheeran its very cute

.

 

_chapter ten: my heart finally trusts my mind and i know somehow it's right_

 

"I've been a bad, bad girl," she whispers seductively as she locks the door of the storage room behind her without taking her eyes off his.

He laughs nervously, as she takes his hands and places them on her hips. She seems determined. "You want to roleplay? At work?"

She nods, biting down on her lip, as she gazes up at him from under her eyelashes, voice sultry, "Please don't arrest me, officer."

"Look, Lydia, I'm not really good at the whole 'role-playing' thing. Me and Scott went to this Star Wars convention once and let me tell you it was not my brightest idea when I asked a female chewbacca where she got all the hair because it looked so natural. I'm probably going to say the wrong thing or—" He rambles, moving his hands to her shoulders like she’s his seven year old child he’s trying to scold. It should make her mad, and it does, but it also fuels her desire.

"Stiles," she snaps, one hand on her hip, "you ARE a cop."

"You make a very good point, Lyds,” he nods in agreement, realizing that he couldn’t really embarrass himself in front of her if he was playing himself. She was used to that kind of socially awkward embarrassment.

She rolls her eyes, pulling on his tie, “Shut up and kiss me. That’s an order.”

He gulps. Okay, that was kind of really hot. He was starting to get into this whole roleplay thing.

“Yes m'am.”

She smiles against his lips. Which totally proves he nailed his part. Booyah.

.

“Is it that difficult of a question to answer?

“Yes!”

“Am I your boyfriend, or am I not? It’s really not that hard, stop leading me on!”

Allison winces, tightening her grip on the steering wheel as she sees Lydia’s nail dig in his forearm, teeth gritted together, through the rearview mirror. “It’s not that simple.”

“What the hell is your problem, Lydia? You tell me you love me and now you want to take it back?”

“I don’t want to take it back, Stiles!”

“So you love me but don’t want to be with me?”

“You can be with someone and love them and not be their stupid girlfriend, Stiles.”

“What? I’m your toyboy now or something?!”

“Ahem,” Allison clears her throat, wishing she had joined her fiancée and his boyfriend Isaac on their morning run (he spent more time with Isaac than with Stiles and her combined, talk about bromantically creepy). “I know I said we could carpool together as long as _your_ jeep is under maintenance and _you_ haven’t bought a new car that doesn't have bullet holes in it, but it’s seven a.m. and I’ve had exactly half a cup of coffee. I don’t feel like arresting you guys for a domestic dispute.”

“Tell me you think this is stupid, too,” Stiles answers finally, and she can practically see steam coming out of Lydia’s ears.

“It is.” Now she is burning holes in the back of her head. “But it’s her stupid thing, so you need to respect it and let her deal with it on her own terms.” Now there’s another set of eyes burning holes in the side of her face. Amazing.

“She’s right,” he sighs as he looks over at his friend who he likes to kiss, “I’ll just refer to you as my mistress from now on. For lack of better word.”

She goes over it. Maybe she needs to get over this irrational fear that as soon as they declare what they have to the world is real, by labeling it, it’ll be over before she knows it. Labels are sometimes good, she decides. (Like, caution: do not drink on the side of a bottle of acid. This is more like caution: do not touch, angry strawberry blonde will make you disappear by forcing you into the witness protection programme)

She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest, hesitantly, “Fine, I’m your girlfriend. But don’t come crying to me about wanting to change your Facebook relationship status, because it’s not happening.”

“But, babe,” he mocks, voice dripping with his usual sarcasm, as he reaches out to smooth out the lines on her forehead, “it isn’t real until it’s on Facebook.”

“Facebook is for people who don’t have a social life.”

“It’s called _social_ media.”

Allison shakes her head to herself as she listens to them bicker. This must be what it feels like to have children. Who make-out, she might add, because it has just escalated to just that. Incest, great, this is what her life has come to.

She should’ve just gone on that damn jog.

.

He’s at Scott’s house, helping him sort through his and Allison’s inevitable wedding presents to make personalized ‘thank you’ notes because the girls are too busy trying out the new cocktail maker Lydia obviously gifted herself and Allison with this exact intention, when they hear a yelp.

Multiple yelps. Screaming. A sob even.

“ _You’re_ the cop!”

“No way. You’re the FBI agent, you do it!”

“Screw you, Allison, and screw your prejudice against the FBI! We aren't all heartless!”

“What the..” Stiles and Scott stop in the doorway as Lydia sees this as her sign to jump off the bed she’s currently standing on and run into Stiles’ arms. He puts his arm around her as Scott asks what’s wrong, sending his wife (who’s perched on top of a currently away rolling chair with one leg and another one on a desk, desperately close to landing in a split) a weirded out look.

“There’s a frickin’ spider, there, there it is! I can’t look away, if I look away it’ll disappear. Oh God, I’m gonna die.”

Spotting the enormous creature, Stiles lets out a yelp, shielding his girlfriend from the monster as he takes a step back. And another. And another, until they’re backed up against a wall.

Scott rolls his eyes, shaking his head as he picks up the spider by it’s legs, putting it on top of his arm.

“Scott, put that thing outside now!”

He grins walking towards her, which causes her to almost fall over before deciding moving both legs on top of the desk was safer, pointing her finger at him, “SCOTT MCCALL, IF YOU TAKE ONE MORE STEP, I WANT A DIVORCE!”

“It’s just a little spider.”

“Little? _LITTLE_?! His legs are the size of my arm!”

“Should we just leave before it bites Scott and he turns into spiderman?” Stiles offers quietly as they watch their friends bicker and she nods against his chest, lifting her chin up to look at him. She fixes his cap, that he’s wearing backwards as always, before opening her mouth, “I’ll take the cocktail maker, if they’re getting a divorce and all, it’s only fair.”

He laughs against her hair and she leans up for a quick kiss before she takes his hand and pulls him along to his jeep, calling a quick 'adios bitches' over his shoulder as she does so.

“I love you, you know,” she whispers against his skin, after placing a kiss on his forearm, leaning against his side as he drives. She normally doesn't really like to be this vulnerable and she's never really vocal about her feelings so he knows not to tease her about it.

He smiles and brings up her hand to kiss one of her knuckles, keeping his eyes on the road, “And I love you.”

Her feels her mouth stretch into a smile against his shoulder as she reaches up to steal his cap and put it on her own head.

“Hey!” He says, mock offended, fixing his flat hair with his free hand as he watches the low light make her hazel green orbs shine.

She smirks smugly, swatting his hand away as he tries to get it back, sending her a stern look before her smirk turns a little more suggestive. Is she trying to get him to run into a tree?

He swallows tightly, adjusting in his seat lightly as she starts running her hand up and down his thigh, placing light kisses on his shoulder and then moves onto his neck.

“Lydia,” he says lowly, trying really hard not to pull over right this second. They’re just a few blocks away from his place.

She kisses right below his ear before her hot breath hits his ear, whispering, “I can’t wait any longer.”

He freezes a little, and she runs a hand down his chest, adding an impatient ‘please’ that has him home in record time, really.

She responds by straddling him in his seat, and lowering her mouth onto his. Considering Ms. Grumpypants from across the street just came back from the hospital, surviving her fifth heart attack, he manages to stumble out of the car and carry her inside fully clothed.

“Someone’s impatient,” she says, sarcasm to her voice and he resists the urge to fistpump; she totally gets that from him.

“Seriously?” He manages to breathe out against her shoulder, brows furrowed.

She giggles as he lowers them on his bed, her long straight hair shielding their faces from everything else. She leans down and kisses his nose as they share a look. He tries not to smile and she bites down on her lip.

“Okay, that was kind of unsexy. It’s the kind of thing my grandma would do.”

She shrugs, her smile not faltering, as she mocks surprise, “What? Grandmas aren’t your thing?”

He chuckles, before flipping them over, elbows supporting his weight, and there’s not much more talk after that.

Honestly? His story could be worse.

.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> was tempted to end it with ‘they run into a tree and die. don’t kiss and drive kids, don’t do it’. i decided against it after the test public (me) found it a little bit morbid and ended it with a lil flirty flirty instead. which im super bad at but hey!!!!!!!! anything for stydia
> 
> pls love yourself and review this Took mE lik;e five? ? ? ? years to finish! thank u so much for reading (still love u for that even if you don’t review)
> 
> again i cant say it enough THANK YOU guys so much for the comments and kudos and views:) it means the world  
> much kisses
> 
> BY THE WAY IF YOU HAVE ANY PROMPTS ABOUT TEEN WOLF OR WHATEVER (i watch 28 tv shows or something so odds are big ive heard about your face) MESSAGE ME HERE OR ON TUMBLR OR WHATEVER im open 24/7..... for suggestions im not a prostitute... yet... i will be if i dont start studying instead of writing! adios thanks again


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